35th Birthday

The cake I made is still sitting
on the table,
wedges of it gone.
Last night, I dreamed of
white frosting
on your lips, your pink
tongue like a feather.

I try to feel your presence
in the house this morning,
but you are gone,
out in the slow autumn rain,
your brown hair becoming fuzzy.

Over and over,
flipping open
the cover of the book you gave me
reveals the same thing -
your almost illegible handwriting:
you slay me.

In my dream, you kissed me,
frosting and feather and all,
and my wife appeared -
she stood in the doorway,
silent, watching.