Take me home, country-ish roads

There’s something so refreshing about your touch.

I’m not saying that I could find myself falling in love with you,

but I’m not going to count it out. 

So, take me home.

Not to a home but your home, our home.

With our bed that we sleep in almost every night together,

and our TV that has started many arguments over what show we want to watch.

“YOU decide.”

“No, YOU decide!”

Our fridge filled with our food from when I sad bake enough cakes to open a bakery.

Our books that neither of us have had the spare minute to even read but goddamn we love how they look on our shelves and hey maybe one day we’ll actually get around to reading them.

Though with the kids and work and writing and enjoying time together just the two of us every so often,

the idea of having any time to spend reading a book

{other than on the rare occasion of needing material to read while using the bathroom}

seems crazy.

Not impossible but not likely.

Maybe when we’re 60-75 we can sit down in our respective reading chairs,

hair all grey,

bodies too in pain from our deteriorating joints to fully curl up and entwine ourselves in the other’s arms anymore, but maybe you can hold my hand and we can read.  

Just take me home.

I’ve never had one of those before.

And having one, especially with you.

Well.

That would just make me the happiest girl in the whole world.