A string of lights draped through the old Live Oaks,
glowin’ like fireflies caught in a two-step slowpoke.

That smooth, sultry hum of a back-porch tune—
a soul-soaked voice, a guitar-lit moon.

We’re tucked into a carved-out cedar bench,
made for two, beneath this Southern stretch.

Toes warmed by a fire pit’s flickering kiss,
a smoky haze, a bourbon twist.

Sometimes quiet’s the best kind of talk,
just you and me on a small-town walk.

And even with the crowd, the clink of boots and glass—
darlin’, you’re the only one I let time pass.
The only lips I wanna taste—
still warm from smoky whiskey and a long-lingering gaze.

SK-