February Will Always Be Cold

When I was walking through Berlin, I found a thrift stall that sold old things

and among the hundreds of pictures and postcards I must have rummaged through

I found myself holding onto the picture of a haunting silhouette

– looking for pieces of you.

I paid the vendor and moved through the city in a daze –

my mind demanding to linger and ask

what shade your eyes would have been

I will never know anything

other than that green is the colour of Paradise

and February will always be cold

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