February

Cold as the burning iceberg;
This is how I feel---
Wrapped in a corner of the Atlantic.
I do not care about the blanket
You are willing to offer me.
The ice emerges from whatever makes me human.
It pierces my body…
I am reduced into ash and pieces of madness.
I said I am dying.
And it’s true – partly, it is true.
I am dying slowly in the empty space.
If I am doubting the existence of my own being
Then how can I be certain of yours?
And then another night comes to its’ end.
And the day is intruding; uninvited and unknown, to the life I kept locked in me.
I am always following this secret resentment, this endless desperation of creating life through death.
I suppose all days with you are the same.