we are most alive in dreams

I have a soft spot
for pavement: the
buckling simplicity,
of the daily wet dreams
during spring, a season
worth keeping inside
when, the well goes dry.

And once the gold
of midday eats,
at the pebbles and
cracked tar rooftops,
I’m in awe at how things
feel between
each minute, slow
and careless like
the hours we made,
love to make my
headaches go away.

I have a soft spot
for sun drops
and this will never,
feel the same again.