His birthday slipped by unnoticed this year,
the last stubborn links of his hold over me broken,
he had removed himself from my consciousness,
fading like condensation on breath-misted glass,
nothing stirs in me now when see his pictures,
no latent pangs of remembered lust,
no wonderings or what-ifs or twinges of regret,
whatever chemical surges fuelled our interactions
all those years ago are long since dissipated,
scattered like dandelion seeds in a gale.
