I used to be eleven months of winter.
My hands were cold from stillness,
my voice was always blown away
and my eyes were always raining.
My laughter was dormant, nothing
but a weak whisper of hope, and I
took to carrying a blanket with me
everywhere. Still, I was always cold.
I used to be eleven months of winter
but then, They would come, bringing
with them foreign chocolate, items
I’d lent the year before, my real smile.
I was only alive in July, a month of
blooming moments, when the sun
made sense and life was light.
May is dying and June is looming.
The ashes of that feeling are stored
in the urn of my heart, always and
forever (you can’t forget the pattern
of the rain on your window) but then
I realise that, this time, July never