February seems a strange time to declare a day of love. It does have enough vowels for passion to thread through, but it seems too crisp a month. I think a Valentines day in Summer would be more appropriate, when the days are long and the nights stutter in short, hot gasps before crawling deliciously into dawn.
I once fell in love in the month of July. The consonants fooled me, the little vowel snuck in and coiled itself tightly around my heart. By December the red stone was covered in frost and icicles cracked it apart.
I can fall in love with a February moon, I can beckon it down from above, take its big round face in my hands and kiss it so that the darkness melts and I am spooned in light. That would be falling in love with the sky.
But a man again?
Only a man who can reach up to hold me, to love me as I did the moon.