The Rooftop Dances

She’s been in two dreams, hopefully zero more.

In the first, we arrived by coach bus into a city
and headed away from our tour to the rooftops;
we were stoned on a secret that our partners didn’t know
yet we were good, kept a boundary, yet it all showed.
The city gave us evening air and enough glow
to easily hop across the one-story high rooves. 

We found each to be like a living room without walls,
often a lawn chair and bottle marking someone’s spot
like a remote parked next to the dent in the couch.
We kept hopping until the last rooftop
where a much taller building blocked any pass.

I don’t recall any words shared, just a hand held
and another family with two kids, reality plugging 
the dream narrative with a stark reminder of realities.

We climbed back to the maze of parked buses,
became separated, and despite some marco pollo,
we couldn’t locate the other. That was the dream.

I remember waking to think this is what life was:
a paradox between a celebration of a perfect ephemeral, spontaneous moment that hugs your being long after it’s gone,
and being stuck at a wall, or lost in the busses, or left behind
once the dream is over as if nothing can be held, 
not even your hand.