The End of July in August

Near the end of July, the month was closing in like the night. Summer air was fruitful, as it often is, yet silenced by the cold sea that breathes on my neck. I stepped outside yet it felt more like i stepped outside myself. It felt like the first time in months. Six thirty had fallen on the trees like a flame to each leaf. Illuminating every vein. Purple flowers dotted the landscape like scattered thoughts. Like my strewn thoughts. Without purpose or direction. A mind never able to flow freely, free like a mind should be. Purpose isn’t really a necessity. But it’s nice now and then. One could imagine it to be something like warm snow. Soft and surrounding yet crunches when you bite into it. The sun was so bright it was hard to make out any presence other than one’s own. But that's me being selfish. The light would drift its fingers over melanin deficient skin and kiss softly pale naked arms leaving little scattered dots. Pressing face into the whiteness - almost suffocating - you could hear the muddled cry of birds. They were lost in the finery of things as well.