Slow dancing at 2am,
George Strait humming low through the room,
bare feet on cold floors,
the world asleep
while we stay awake
inside this small, borrowed moment.
No crowd but the shadows,
no spotlight but the lamp in the corner.
Your hand at my waist
like it’s always known
where it belongs,
like this song was written
for the way we move together.
We sway without counting time,
letting George
tell the story for us—
about love that lasts,
about staying,
about choosing each other
without making a sound.
At 2am, nothing is rushed.
Nothing is heavy.
There is only you,
only me,
and a slow song playing softly enough
to feel like a promise
we don’t have to say out loud.
Through the Fog 
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