Amethyst

Friday, February 7, 2014 Comments Off

February. Get ink, shed tears.
Write of it, sob your heart out, sing,
While torrential slush that roars
Burns in the blackness of the spring
Boris Pasternak



It's February.
The month when I found you--yes, the only blossoming flower in the spring. Your heavy branches was calling me home--years, years ago.
The month when I bonded with you--something tighter than those of physical bonds. Spiritual bond, you once said, was much more stronger than anything, it surpassed any physical bonds--afterwards, I tried to cut my hair, the same hair that you adored, but the feelings were still there.
The month when I trusted you--falling asleep was one of the forms of trusting people, no? (It is harder to imagine someplace else to sleep)
The month when I lost you--too soon, my soul ached. My soul lost its counterpart far too soon. It hadn't even exchanging breaths. Too soon--too early, not enough.

Will it be the month that you come back to me?

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