Tonight, the brisk nighttime winds 

and the shrinking sliver of a moon signal 

the unwelcome arrival of a new month.


August is hovering like a shadow I can’t beat,

with its aggressive behavior and insensitivity 

to these sacred yet fleeting moments of summer.


What I have here, in late July, 

has been special with the sunset-painted 

skies and the comfort of his embrace. 


There will be no rewinding time back 

to these damp morning walks along unsettled 

brick and music-filled nights on city rooftops.


I try to hold on, sit a bit longer 

in the humidity of each passing minute 

turning into a moment I’ll soon want back. 


August closes in, reminding me of the soft touches

I’ll miss and the purple blurred sunsets I’ll soon forget.


By Claire Furjanic

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