These words red in their birth and painful,
screaming their sour lungfuls,
calling you February.

You sift laughter to find me frowning
and point out the words as reason,
calling me February.

But it’s not you, it’s me, I am getting bitter.
But it’s not me, it’s you, you are getting better.

These words green at the heart and hoping;
lean rings for desert seasons;
rooted in February.

You paint these coins into a corner;
afraid of admitting interest;
buried in February.

But it’s not me, it’s you, trying to be bitter.
But it’s not you, it’s me, tying it together.

So tell me now, what’s the use
of having these muscles that you never use.
So tell me now that you can’t discard
how it works, how it got so hard.

You’re so screwed up, you can’t deny it,
but I would have walked you through it,
if not for February.

I’m so broken at every nightfall,
I’d love you again, I promise,
maybe in February.

Tags: songs