February

My February sunrise doesn't look as charged as your forested eyes across the room.
I can hear your fireworks pulse from the digitalised telegram.
London town, gazing to where it all began.
I'm still holding
The metal strings that you gave me.
They are wired across my glassy lungs.
I have traced
The footsteps that you left on the corner of the garden
Dazzling flower grew on your shoulder.
Welcoming back the distance, distance, distance.
I live in the future of the precious past.
(I still feel your eyes, and hear your laughs every time I paint in symmetry).