April was a month of wishful thinking and soft star collisions.
It was meeting old lovers in dimly lit rooms and writing words that stained my hands.
It was laughing and watching the moon’s dalliances while the tide uncovered remnants of my lost self.
 
It was standing still at the edge of today, like a candle burning, dreams within dreams unfolding.
Contemplation was a constant. A tangle of melancholy, fire and hope.
 
It was once again adding another candle on my cake. It was friends holding my hands and becoming temporary suns.
(They brought me dyed flowers in bright colours. And they sang to me.)
 
April was a month of quiet wishing and of writing aching words. It was a month of clinging to dreams formed by the moon on lonely nights.