Golden Hour Fries

We sat in your car,

windows down, hearts up,

with ketchup packets

and a paper cup.

You smiled like the first track

on a favorite song,

I laughed too loud—

but you sang along.

Your hand reached in

that red and yellow box,

and suddenly time

was ticking soft like clocks.

One fry, two—

you offered me the third,

our fingertips brushed,

and my whole world stirred.

Salt on your lips,

sunset in your eyes,

I swear I fell

somewhere between fries.

No roses, no champagne,

just drive-thru dreams—

but I’ve never believed

so much in a "we."

And now every bite

of something small and sweet,

tastes a little like

the moment we meet.