February, you've lost me to poetry
and I die in your wake every morning
and every night.
The stars bitterly sway against
the plush of your contour.

Under the gaze of the sky
we plagued our dreams with fists of snow
because perhaps it would fall in reality too.

Wondering, we're like children
only more of bruising dreams
crumbling down
softly, softly like snow.

a/n- well we don't get snow in this region usually, but when snow fell in the country next to ours, it had me feverishly wishing for snow.