February is often a month colored grey; the skies, the water, the faces of those I pass. The wind doesn't hold any words; only sounds, only memories. Grey streets disappear, tangled in power lines and exhaling fog, like smoke from between the lips of an old man. The only colors are the people; souls all different colors - some vibrant, some dull. Some colder than ice slipping between pale fingers, some like a gentle spring rain. All have one thing in common - we wait for Spring. Faces pressed up against the window panes, stained and dripping with breath from lungs laden with ice and the remnants of Winter, we comb the skies with searching eyes, hoping to see a glimpse of blue in the smoke that covers the brazen ocean above our heads. Silence wraps its fingers around us, holding our words tenderly - like a mother holding her child - refusing to release them into the receptive air, afraid to see the frozen perfection thawed. The pale light works its' way across the worn carpet - across faces, across veined hands, across faded pillows - and disappears into the cracks in the tile. The light seems to be melancholy, tired, weak, as it too waits for Spring.
pictures from February.