i'll probably still hate birthdays

write stories with me
on the walls of bathroom stalls
while we travel as far and as long as we want.
i'll buy a pack of multi-
colored sharpies
(only if you swear not to make use of me
as scrap-paper while i sleep).

write stories with me
as we share qwerty on our keyboard
even though our fingers kiss
(and it feels the same
whether it's a touch of your hand
or lips;
it's electric).

write stories with me,
in cake batter,
on happy-birthday-nights-for-two
before the candles have been blown out
and i've still got my wish and everything
falls into place
as it should
(and i can wish for butter pecan ice cream
because i already have you).