February Blues

February

comes with two hands.

One holding candles.

The other holding grief.

Birthdays fill the calendar.

But so do the tears

that sneak in sideways—

the kind

that look like smiles

until they hit

your chest.

On the 10th

my mother’s memory

sits heavy,

like her name

refuses

to leave my mouth.

On the 17th

I drown again,

celebrating my aunt

with water in my lungs

and love

I don’t know

where to put.

Between the ache

I reach

for small comforts.

A slice

of chocolate cake.

Orange chicken

from Panda Express.

Grief eats too.

I smile

when I can.

I let a balloon rise,

watch it carry

what I can’t say

into a sky

that never answers back.

I remember them

out loud.

Then brace myself

for the night.

Because nighttime

always knows

what daytime

lets me borrow.

I wish

I could call them.

Kiss them.

Hold them close

on days meant

for celebration.

Instead

I hold the memory—

and it holds

me right back.

February blues.

Heavy.

Black.

Still loving.