Pure

Affection, ever so sly,
Meets me every July.
But along comes regret —
Why can’t I live and let?

The months of the past,
Count mistakes ever so vast.
Dates, the fifth and sixth run repeat.
Decisions stopped feeling concrete.

Who knew that ideas of May
would cause my soul this dismay?
Little did the May of me know,
Sixth July, would question it so.