White tulips bloom where your laughter stays,
Like Sinatra’s song, you live life your way.
The piano hums softly, each note a sweet hue,
A melody written in pink, just for you.
Coffee warms mornings, your smile warms the night,
Even Nietzsche would pause, and admit you are the light.
A shuffle of Balatro, luck dancing in your hand,
Deep aesthetics surround you—so perfectly planned.
Your curly hair frames a story, wild, free, and rare,
Like poetry itself tucked inside every hair.
So here’s to your birthday, my love, my delight,
A symphony of tulips, of pink, and of light.