On the eve of my birthday I watch the April sunset and wonder if I'm happy.
( I don't usually worry about it too much. )
I have another glass of wine and wish for more time to be creative. I feel old and unaccomplished, or is it unloved? Even though I know it to be untrue, I still believe it. At this very moment, somewhere else in the city, friends and family are preparing to celebrate me as if I deserve it.
And all I really want is my father.
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