February seeps in.
A sad whisper, like summer warmth
and a winter of memories.
My colours flow into each other.
Euphoric, like the rejoicing of fireflies
that rush through summer winds and
revel in wanderlust.
The promise of Spring,
transcended from the smell of
moth-eaten books in thrift stores.
Dusty and transient, like
the fires of distant stars that have
exploded into black holes,
leaving nothing but the imprint
of their last hurrah
that cascades into the northern lights
like an archaic rhapsody.
And I stay awake
to ask the night for a dream.