The Last Night in July I think

The Last Night in July (I think) by Evelyn Aimarie It is the last night in July (I think) And this pink Moscato tastes like you. Memories dance to the sound of crickets chirping, Their legs rubbing bottle brush bristles against my brain, Scratching an itch I didn’t know I had. I think I will call it— Childhood, Memory? Lightning bugs rave in succession, Primordial neighbor to the procession. Release. The wine harmonizes— Honeysuckle exposed, sunray-damp. Heat lightning remembrance, relative air. Even the starlight lingers, Pressing the mother Sun’s legacy of heat into the blanket of the night sky. Pulsing, Sweat-drop breeze, Kissing my lips sloppily but with a softness. Like fingertips across my face, Frizzing my hair like the hands of lovers— And I exhale my heartless day Into the musical Of the last night in a small town, Southern July— (I think.)