Among all the dates in the world, besides my birthday, my immediate family’s birthday, and holidays, August 31 sticks out.
It’s his birthday today, and I have never forgotten this date. For the past seven years, I have not forgotten that.
The fact that I’m even writing something about this means that he still means something to me. And I’m not proud of it.
I am supposed to be over you, I am supposed to have closure. I am supposed to be strong, and I am supposed to concentrate on who I love now.
But why am I weak? Why are you the one who makes me bend, and fall down at my knees? How can I not be in love with you and yet so affected by you?
You were never my boyfriend. But you were my first love. You were the first to touch my heart. You were the first one who liked me the way I liked you.
I remember your birthday four years ago; you wore the shirt I gave and picked out for you the Christmas before.
I remember how you used to pace with me. I remember how we had to whisper that night so that no one would wake up.
I remember you were the first one to cuddle with me while watching a scary movie. There is so much I remember.
Maybe one day I’ll finally forget. Maybe one day I’ll finally learn, but I don’t think today is that day.
So happy birthday, Pierre. Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you. I miss you like crazy, happy birthday to you.