Yellow Streetlights

Midnight breathing against the street,

light spilling onto the stones.

Not falling exactly—

More like it’s been poured,

a slow puddle of melted gold or butter

collecting between the cracks of the street. 

The lamps hum to themselves. 

The air feels lighter than usual, 

like moths that circle around tiny planets of light

—gravity forgotten.

Shadows stretch long and thin 

across cobblestones,

Black ribbons laid 

carelessly across the road.  

The butter light clings to everything—

a bench, a railing, 

the curve of a doorway—

as though the street

has been brushed with warm honey. 

The lamps keep glowing,

like a small sun

that decided to stay behind

when daylight left.