Every year a cake, from memory.
The cake rises as memory fails,
Ingredients like collapsing into
Singularity, a white hole of food.
Every year she says it's love.
Every year it's less edible, and her
Smile is that much wider.
You
Wonder sometimes, through a prism
darkly, if she knows; if this is just
A joke she's playing, knowing no one
Will ever call her on it; her only
Revenge on a world grown too young.
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