July wraps us in warmth—
not just sun,
but how your love blooms daily.

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July arrived by leaving June,
taking rain-soaked promises,
but forgetting your shadow in me.

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July rains whispered softly,
your hands found mine,
and suddenly, everything began to heal.

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Just when I stopped searching, your laugh found me.
Jars of stardust couldn’t hold what your eyes hold.
Journeyed through storms, yet your smile was the shelter.
Jasmine air and tangled hands—June ended too soon.
Jumped into forever, without checking where we’d land.
Jealous of the silence now that you’re not here.

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The kind of morning I want with you—
your scent on my skin,
our legs tangled in heat,
my head on your chest,
lips still swollen from last night,
bodies sticky, slow, and spent.
No alarms,
just your hand gripping my thigh,
pulling me closer for one more round
before the sun dares to rise.

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Let this night be ours—
no silence,
no restraint.
Just your hands on my hips,
my teeth at your throat,
the sheets twisted,
the air thick with sweat and moans.
No pretending,
just claiming—
over and over,
until the night forgets its own end.

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Just when I began to bloom, you whispered goodbye.
Unspoken memories cling like warmth on skin.
Nothing gold ever stays—yet you made it shimmer.
Even in leaving, you left light behind.

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You came with jasmine-scented sighs and sunlit ease,
Laced my days with gold, my nights with hush.
You held my hand in quiet, unsaid ways,
Whispered, "Not all warmth has to rush."

You taught me how endings can feel like bloom,
That even the sweetest stays must part.
So here’s a kiss on your trailing hem,
As you leave with half my heart.

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Farewell, O June — thou bearer of pale gold,
Of dusky evenings dressed in lavender air,
Thy days grew long, yet never once grew old,
And left the roses blooming unaware.

I kissed thy hours as one might kiss a flame,
Too lovely to be held, yet close I drew—
Each morning whispered gently of thy name,
Each twilight cloaked in thy ephemeral hue.

Thou cam’st with jasmine breath and thunder’s sigh,
A trembling hush in every storm-kissed tree,
And now thou partest — not with loud goodbye,
But with a glance that does not turn to me.

Go, gentle month, and take with thee the tune
Of dreams I dreamt beneath thy waxing moon.

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Each Morning, Thy Word

Each morn I wake, and lo—thy name appears,
A subtle chime that breaks the hold of night.
Thy message, simple, still doth move me near,
More dear to me than morning's first soft light.

No trumpet's song, nor robin's warbling tune
Could match the hush thy tender letters bring—
They bloom within my soul like buds in June,
And bid my weary spirit rise and sing.

What spell is this, that inkless words bestow
Such warmth as fires in wintry silence burn?
Dost thou not know—thy presence, sweet and low,
Commands my heart, and bids its tides return?

So let the world go on in toil or jest—
I wake with thee, and all the rest is rest.

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