Dancing In The Kitchen

I said the last time was the last time,

didn’t I?

But, who was I kidding right?

I guess you can call me a liar.

I don’t fit in with Omaha,

but I belong with you.

We’re dancing in the kitchen,

and it’s cold outside,

but in here, it feels just right.

White sweater,

two cups of red wine,

washing in the warm glow of the oven light.

Kiss me slow, like you’ll die if you don’t.

I breathe in deep,

and do what I can

to memorize every piece of this night,

praying on every higher power out there that it won’t end.

Your hands hold me close,

somehow it’s not enough.

Being the keeper of my heart must be tough

when my emotions stray this far from reality.

I have no plans for the upcoming years,

except for holding onto you.

That’s why dancing in the kitchen

feels so essential, so consequential

to my lifeline.

I can’t hide that you’re oxygen for me.

We run around in love, like we’re in a movie.

Calling each other in the middle of the night,

fighting over a football game,

cooking dinner,

stretching out our muscles over and over,

and strengthening a bond

that can’t seem to ever break.

I live in fear of any strains.