Dear Eric, dearest
wave cloud dancing prettiest above the Bighorns—
 I’m sorry. I know you had your big bday
soirée last night & I didn’t show. I fell asleep, right
 in my party clothes, believing I would nap

 for just a bit. Eric, please tell me
you became so busy with fluff & festivity that you forgot
 all about me. Of course, I’m sad we missed
each other’s never not stun-stellar looks. Next time!
 For now, you should know I left my curtains

 open, so at least the nearby trees & snow saw how
happily I dressed, how happy for you I am. Letting your wavy hair
 get wavier, & long. Growing
out your mustache. Doing such things your mom & dad
 tsk at, try tskily to dismiss you for. Remember

 you’ve got no time to even be bored by that,
by them. You’ve got an appointment to pierce your ears.
 You’ve got an appointment with everyone
in your group chat—to wear those super-dangly, mega-cute,
 yayyy-but-also-WATCH-OUT cleaver earrings.

 & that’s right, you’re researching
tattoo artists for a sexy, tiny something. Likely a phrase, definitely
 on your left thigh. Something about being
a wave cloud. Perhaps a commentary on your formal name,
 Kelvin-Helmholtz, which simply has

 too many l’s, far too much
lack of pizzazz. Maybe it’s time you draw on your other, flutterier
 name, Fluctus. Or demand Van Gogh finally
inspire you back. Doesn’t he owe your family big time? In any case,
 you’re dreaming. & who cares how long it takes

 to dream everything. Happy birthday, birthweek,
happy birthmonth, Eric. Remember, friend: if your mind
 or heart isn’t feeling up to it,
your mustache will keep on dreaming. The crest of your wave
 will dream. Even the trough will.