Small, Failed Flame

The cashier asked, birthdate, please?

And it wasn't just the usual unease,

but a chill that settled in my knees,

right there by the organic kale.

It hit me, that year. A single cake,

wilted frosting, for goodness sake,

and a wick that refused to take

the flame. Just wouldn't inhale.

I sat alone. The room was still.

The air, a bit too cold to fill

with wishes. A silent, bitter pill.

No one to sing, no one to shout.

It's coming round again, I know.

That quiet, dark, unsparked glow.

Some things you just can't let go.

Some anniversaries you could do without.