Tempest, beloved, this is the year I give nothing to you. I've thought about it long and hard and I could only find one thing that could possibly make you happy today of all days and it is something that I cannot give. Another holds that happiness. Thus, I present to you now, my words. As I always have through all these years.
I have written to you, written of you, read things as if they were written of you. In my letters, my poetry, I have summoned you in monikers and fashioned you into personas as countless as the distant stars. I have sworn you into my words, sworn to you in my words. I have built you fortresses in my mind with these words. They have become one with the very walls of my heart. To unseat you is unspeakable grief. Sometimes I shelter from thoughts of you in them but mostly, I admire their walls, the long lonely hallways, the crooked stairways; I admire my impossible affection for you. You are the vessel for my words. My medium, my tedium, my delirium.
This is all I do. I write of you in long reminiscences, I write you into an eternal precipice, because that is where the beauty of life is most stark. You fit into all these notions and more (such is the nature of a muse). You are many things to me and this is precisely why I will never cease to write of you. A word, a sentence, a paragraph. They are never enough. I have tried to sever this connection. I have tried to erase these words, raze my crumbling fortresses to the ground, scorch you out of my life. It pained me beyond my understanding, and if I am not mistaken, it pained you too.
I hope you read this with fondness for me. My intention is to remind you just what you mean to me and hopefully, to make you happy. I want you to know in this life that God has blessed us with, no matter how many years go by, how much changed things can be, I will stay the same. I treasure what we have, and always will.
Dear sweet friend, happy birthday. May Allah SWT bless you with love and happiness in this life and the next. Inshallah.