February Girl

February Girl

I met you in February,

when winter was still pretending

it didn’t care about spring.

You laughed, and something in me thawed—

quiet, unexpected,

like sunlight sneaking through a half-open curtain.

April gave me my first kiss,

your hands warm against a world still cold.

I didn’t know a moment could echo

through a person like that—

but it did,

and it still does.

May tried to teach us distance.

We let go, heavy-hearted,

like dropping something fragile

just to stop it from shaking.

But July returned with its restless heat,

and so did you—

two magnets pretending they don’t understand why

they keep turning back.

We broke again,

the way waves break—

loud, messy, inevitable,

but always followed by a quiet

that felt too empty.

And now—

now we speak again,

softly, carefully,

like two people holding the last page of a book

they aren’t ready to close.

I still love you—

not the way I loved you first,

wide-eyed and surprised—

but deeper,

like a song I’ve learned by heart,

one I can’t unhear

no matter how long the silence lasts.