I Get to Keep You

The floor clears out, the lights go low, and it's only you, only you, here we go. You steal my hoodie every winter, you say "drive safe" like it's a vow. There's a coffee ring you left on my novel — I never wiped it off, and look at us now. They told us once this might not be allowed, in so many quiet, ordinary ways. But the hall is rented, the cake is cut, and I'm holding you in front of their gaze. Both our families in the folding chairs, and the only thing I can think is — I get to keep you. After all the never, all the no — I get to say it out loud, hold you slow, let the whole room know. After everything, my love, I get to keep you. By the second song the shoes come off, you laugh that laugh that wrecks me clean. We cooked so bad in our first apartment, burned the rice and called it cuisine. There were years I rehearsed this in secret, not sure the world would let it be true — now there's rice in my pocket for luck again, and a ring, and a forever, and you. Both our families in the folding chairs, and the only thing I can think is — I get to keep you. After all the never, all the no — I get to say it out loud, hold you slow, let the whole room know. After everything, my love, I get to keep you. And somewhere there's two people, decades back, who danced behind a curtain, hid the ring — so when I dip you under all these lights, I'm dancing for them too, my everything. We're out here in the open. We made it. Hear the whole room start to sing — I get to keep you. After all the never, all the no — I get to say it out loud, hold you slow, let the whole room know. After everything, my love, I get to keep you. The floor's still ours, the night's still young. I get to keep you. We've only begun.