Meet me in Hauts-de France, a train that will take us to Brussels the next day’

I stood rigid on a wintry night of a wisp December, bright but dark city of Lille outside a desolate gare

‘We missed the train’ I whispered to myself. His promised turned into ashes, blown by the wind

the snow is starting to fall and I looked up, as it creates an image of a slow motion

‘maybe, we could go to London’ oh, silly natter

The frigid wind burned my hands as I dire for friction

‘He is not coming’ my head yelped in fear

I called the taxi, and looked back for the lastime, the only thing that lights up is the lamp post with the effect of a falling snow


The road was empty
but as this one light stood out,


it gave me hope