February used to be special for me, because of simple silly reasons like first two letters of February are ‘Fe’.. Heart was gullible free and naive. There was a smile on my face, there were bunties on the cake and scissors in your hands. Night was my favorite time. I was in love, unseen explicit and untouched love. I re-lived my childhood in autumn when leaves flew over my head, my heart spellbound in invisible waves of the Arabic ocean. Then came a storm, dark purple and thick. My signs: washed away; hundreds of thousands of words but no fingerprints. February is a breathless dead month now and I keep waiting for May to come. Across the river, I saw three figures, all of them holding different signs, I can’t read very well from such distance but God, I had to read those signs. I couldn’t resist, the urge to know, the curiosity kept increasing, like a rapid shockwave or an approaching orgasm. I was six feet from the edge when I heard a voice shouting my name but it was too late as I felt the wind shattering my chest like I was smashed into a million broken pieces of glass, the gravity turning negative, my legs and arms waved through the air vigorously. When I hit the ground, I could feel cotton instead of my bones. I was flying, I lived through death like water lives through fire. The sign on gypsy’s forehead casted a deep reflection on the sky with a part of my name printed beneath the clouds. ‘The wait is over’ ‘The wait is over’ … These words echoed in the air, cross-fading and becoming louder when suddenly it came to me. I was brought back to life by a stolen hymn, a melody I wish I had kept. I dream to touch the trees you have touched, I want to kiss the flowers you have kissed and I want to be the person you loved. You must feel the electric cold touch of mine, how I pull out joy from a fallen teardrop and how I catch the falling rain and turn it into sand. Clouds are black when they are furious and Oracles are true when the heart is curious, but the matter of fact is, it isn’t.