Fully, Completely
You say my name like a half-remembered tune,
a song you hummed while locked in a trunk of a rusted-out car,
windows down, cigar smoke curling like ghosts,
before distance rewrote the chorus,
before we forgot what the verses meant.
We were the chords never resolved
the bridge that collapsed beneath the weight of silence,
hands reaching in the dark for echoes of what we lost,
too late to hold, too close to forget.
Now, you take a leap, placing your hand in mine,
something like a miracle, like the song of spring rain,
like nothing ever cracked, nothing ever hurt,
like the lyrics in our heads where now becoming a song,
waiting for the rhythm to pull us home.
I tell you I get it now, love is not porcelain,
not some glass ballerina spinning on a music box,
not a thing you hold your breath around, afraid to drop.
No, love is the hum of a corduroy road under your tires,
a full tank, that song which never fails to hit.
You nod, because you knew that already,
like the last of a thought that always lingers,
like knowing how to turn a whisper into a roar,
like the way we come back is the way we never left,
like love is not a maybe, it just is.
And tonight, under this old neon glow,
with the world hanging loose outside the door,
we sit inside something real, something good,
something that does not ask why or when or how,
something that feels a like home, fully, completely.