I listened to James Bay until 4:30 that morning.
I thought about you, and the universe, and how we had ever figured out which way to find each other. Maybe you saw me first, and thought that my smile lit up the whole room. Or maybe it was when the music started to pump through the stereo, and you just danced through the living room with your arms and legs going every which way.
I don’t know what we spoke about on that road trip from the tip of Florida all the way to the Carolina’s. But that conversation had me in fits of laughter, and my head was thrown back, and my stomach ached, and my shoulders fell up and down, and my hair was tossed over the seat of the car. You told me how beautiful I looked in sunset light, and the way you gave me those eyes of yours; I couldn’t imagine seeing you any more open and honest in that moment.
When we posed for pictures at every site that needed seeing, and danced to all the music that needed dancing, and belting out all those songs that needed more than singing. You spun me around in that hotel room, and held me close, right under the crook of your chin, and right in between my favorite spot; your arms and your chest. I could feel your breath on my shoulder, and could hear your heartbeat pick up. And that moment, everything moved a little slower, we were pulled a little closer, we were orbiting on that same path, and this was what it was.
This was what songs were made of, and it didn’t matter what happened to us before or after, just this. This was it.
We fell into tangled limbs on over bleached sheets, with the shades drawn, and lights low. There were tall tales about these moments, about the dangers of reaching too far and loving too hard. And my heart slammed right into my chest, and your lips tasted my own, and we fell carelessly and lazily into the morning.
So, when I listened to James Bay, and thought about you, these were the things I thought about.
Much Love, Miranda