June

Summer drifts in on a bergamot breeze,

citrus and sunlight tangled in the leaves,

the kind of scent that stays on skin

long after the day has already gone home.

We wander through scenes half-real, half-remembered—

shutters half-open, laughter spilling like prosecco,

stone steps warm enough to write poetry on,

shadows flirting with our footsteps.

The wind moves through the trees

like it’s turning pages in a book

we forgot we were part of—

slow, inevitable, tender.

In the heat of June,

when the nights are long

and the world smells like fruit and fire,

everything feels like it could last forever

even if we know it won’t.