June is just a metaphor with your leg around his neck,sharing his hollows. It is a month of smooth, raw death but June is just a poetic element that is a cave. Its a place where the lines of the song play
when they get back, the rolling stops; there's no one to stay with
in your head.Your Rooms collide- what happens when
we're like the nudists, the nudist of all
being June- nothing's bare.You touch it when it falls like a dream around your hair-the dead that never saved you from rain.Its a month of finding yourself in the puddles, but
June is just a metaphor which spells listen to me, wears a spacesuit like it could float away to eclipse for real.Like it could stick its head into the fridge and change its name without getting soaked till the knee.Like the storm that threatens to stop the music but doesn't; the calm-
it is that month.But June is just a metaphor,on a torn piece of soul with the only blooming hollows, lying facedown; on your cheek; inbetween your finger-joints when you can't write it down. June remains a metaphor while love comes to you through T9 as a typographic error.