a month (in theory)

dedicated to floral incarnation
and pinkish saccharine pulp from watermelons on balmy fingertips,
and wet smiling kisses while lovers’ noses touch
(and engage in eskimo kisses of their own)

underneath aegean starless skies

and nostalgically chilling and sultry breezes
and blissfully euphoric endless,



summer nights
full of the deepest kind of syrupy love.
(i could feel your love dripping.)

july is meant to represent

an unrestricted thought-invoking exhilaration
that is based on the very idea that summer, short era of everlasting time you are,
feels as boundlessly grand and eternal as those


numbing (in ways beautiful)
bursts of unadulterated love one human could feel for another;
those moments where you realize you could wish for nothing more
than to be wonderfully held by the one human being
who you would without a moment’s hesitation
give absolutely anything to make sure they felt loved.

july just feels like time Itself,
as if it were a month for commemorating the sheer inescapability of time,
and how as soon as july passes then comes august,
a month – a return to a petulant school reality and fears – and worst of all

momentary physical goodbyes as paralyzing as razor cut veins –
no longer flowing with nurturing blood –


no longer supporting
a now scared heart
wondering when the next time being held
in the soft sun tanned arms of the stupid boy she loves will be

and despite the fact he always tells her not to cry, and kisses her body with soft platitudes and warm reassurances

she (she, the heart, she, the body, she, the trembling aching crying soul) can’t help but bursting into an incoherent fit of broken debilitating sobs
whenever she remembers it’s july
because she’s never experienced such all at once pain and fear
that makes her entire body feel
so fiery and numb all in the same agonizing never-ending sensation
palpable in its sorrow, walking trepidation in Soul

and now

a month, in reality,
dedicated to the most rational of fears,
that time exists as much as love does.