Dances and Campfires
I remember the way your fingers brushed against my lips,
searching for a sign that I eventually gave.
I remember the way your lips danced with mine,
way better than my shitty “dad” dancing.
Each and every movement you made
was reciprocated by my own love for you.
As corny as I can be, you have to admit that
it felt right.
Like our lips were supposed to dance like that.
I’d never tell you this outright these days,
but I look at you and I still have that urge to dance.
I still have such a love for you that burns
brighter than any love I’ve had before.
I look at you and I see a strong, passionate woman,
who I can only hope remembers our dance fondly.
If you somehow read this one day,
know that I’m still tending to my fire,
like a campfire that keeps me warm.
The country music still plays, so
my only cheesy question to you is:
may I have this dance?