Forty Two Kisses

You didn’t buy me anything
for my birthday last year,
or the year before.
Or the year before that.

Every year,
I buy you something.
You insist you don’t want it.
I end up regifting it,
or taking it back.

This year,
I want to give you something
that you don’t have to cancel plans for
something that can’t be taken back.

By the time you finish this poem,
you’ll feel it,
when you close your eyes.

You didn’t sing Happy Birthday to me,
but in truth,
you didn’t have to.
Instead,
what I want you to do is this
I want you to think of the number 42.
And I want you to think about lips
pressing against your skin
slow and intentional,
pressed into places
that will make you smile.

One behind your ear,
where your hair used to hang
before you cut it.
A place you don’t have to think twice about.
Right behind your ear.

Two on your shoulder,
for all the things you hold and carry
with no hesitation.

Three on the scar
you got from when you played Olympics
with your sister in the ’90s.

Four near the place
you flinch the most
a place you feel you don’t deserve,
when deep down,
you know you do.

Five in the space between your breath,
and the other things you hide,
even when you smile.
It’s something you can take with you
wherever you go.

No matter where you are,
when you take the time out
when you’re celebrated and unwrapped
I hope that you see
you’re wanted,
without a single balloon
or dollar store card.
Gifts are cool, but
When that one special message,
that one special call,
comes through.

And when you’re in good company,
and you close your eyes,
you smile
and you’ll realize
that every word is true.
Once that person shows up,
it’ll confirm everything
you already beautifully know.

And you’ll finish
counting
on your own.
Without a single need for anything