the best versions of ourselves are soft

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i am here, wondering
worrying if the day will
break into an open flower
under the yellow clouds floating
over a city in an endless pursuit of itself
it’s 8 am and all my resolute parts are
melting at the back of a cab
i am on the phone with my lover
not saying a word to each other
just calling back to the last time
we camped on the mountains
how it rained all night and
the dew came and we warmed
by a fire barely alive
never did we think that
mornings like that
will save mornings like this