July

July.
The lover of all months.
When skin changes from cantaloupe to apricot,
Eyes become inviting and spicy,
And hair shines like jam-spread amber.
Giggling and stolen glances turn the waves on
As the breeze freezes fragile moments into a civil state of blush.
Sandsteps follow each other in a dance privately known as
The Honey Quicksand of Old Walnuts and Uneasy Hopes.
The only rhythm you can dance it on is the sigh.
As for the echo, it`s the resemblance of the
Neverending lament of corals being
Crushed to dust by the aegean waves of body tremble.

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