In the void, a day beats

February,
Like a pressure cooker it grazes invisible orbits,
liberating forces of the 28th,
and in the silence of that flight the question beats:
Where does the 29th wait?
February carries an incomplete pulse,
It fits into the system with adaptations,
by dint of amputated heartbeats.
It is a patient month
that waits four years
for permission to be completed.
The calendar,
earthly prosthesis of the days never lived,
like ghosts in anonymity,
they fold themselves over and feign exactitude,
but they are no more than sighs
holding up the whole.
There vibrates in the air
the charge,
the roar of the comets,
the restraint its fissure demands...

At the edge of the light
that shatters asteroids,
the cataclysmic moons.
Compressed like a sun on the verge of collapse,
condenses toward the exact point...
where the 29th could be born.
The cycles hurl them
into the throat of the void,
restarts that look like endings
but are portals.
Cryptic messages with no explanation,
promises of hope.
An unknown is born:
__ If I were the 29th,
Would I be the outcast of the system,
and the one discriminated against by the 31s?
__Wake up, 29th
The 28th is not a celebration in itself,
but the shadow... of what you could have been.