Just Not With Her

Verse 1

She had ten years on him when the county fair rolled in,

Silver in her hair, sunlight on his skin.

She gave him a spare key, space on her dresser,

He fixed her back porch step like a quiet confessor.

Sunday morning pews, he’d underline the Word,

Spoke of vows and covenant, every letter heard.

She kept a lace-white dress in a cedar chest blur,

He understood commitment—just not with her.

Chorus

He believed in rings, in forever and the Lord,

He could quote Corinthians better than the board.

He talked about a promise like a farmer talks of rain,

But he kept his name unspoken, kept his distance in the frame.

He knew what “always” meant, knew what a vow was worth,

He just didn’t want that kind of faith with her.

Forty years of coffee cups and prayers by her side,

But the door to “husband” stayed locked from inside.

Verse 2

Mail came to one last name, though his boots lived by her door,

He’d buy her Sunday lilies, never step onto the floor

Where you stand before a preacher, say the simple, heavy lines—

He’d smile and say “God’s timing,” watch the years draw the signs.

She’d circle dates on calendars, then fold them into drawers,

He’d change the oil, mow the yard, mend fences like a chore.

At the hospital they asked him, “Sir, are you next of kin?”

He wrote “friend” in shaky letters, felt the thunder roll within.

Chorus

He believed in rings, in forever and the Lord,

He could quote the red-letter better than the sword.

He talked about a promise like a beacon through the storm,

But he kept one hand from blessing, kept the paper cold and torn.

He knew what “always” meant, knew what a vow was worth,

He just didn’t want that kind of life with her.

Forty years of faithful as a shadow on the wall,

But faithful ain’t a marriage if you won’t make the call.

Bridge

Maybe it was fear, maybe it was pride,

Maybe he loved the shelter more than stepping inside.

He’d pray “Thy will be done,” then whisper to the night,

“Lord, keep me good and honest, but spare me from that light.”

She held her hope like china, fine and easy to disturb,

He gave her all but one thing—then called it love, unblurred.

Verse 3

Now the porch swing’s rusted, radio hums low,

Her cedar chest is quiet with a dress she’ll never show.

He sits in church alone, leaves a space upon the pew,

Sings the hymns by memory, every word is true.

He still mows the pasture, keeps her roses in a row,

Tells the neighbor kids a story only old men know:

“How you can love somebody past the end of all the years,

And still not give the one thing their heart most wants to hear.”

Final Chorus

He believed in rings, in forever and the Lord,

He could map a marriage on a chapter and a chord.

But the truth that took a lifetime, sharp as any spur:

He understood commitment—just not with her.

Forty years of standing close enough to feel the burn,

But never brave the altar where the blessings turn.

Outro

Some folks need a promise, some folks live by blur,

He stayed for forty seasons—

I am a global nomad/permanent traveler, or coddiwombler, if you will, and I move from place to place about every three months. I am currently in Peru and heading to Chile in a few days and from there, who knows?. I enjoy writing articles, stories, songs and poems about life, spirituality and my travels. You can find my songs linked below. Feel free to like and subscribe on any of the platforms. And if you are inspired to, tips are always appreciated, but not necessary. I just like sharing.

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