Rocky Mountain High Love

This isn’t a poem about the Rocky Mountains.

It’s about a girl who lost her way,

and the man who helped her find it again

without even realizing it.

Rocky Mountain High was playing in the background

the night I poured my heart out to him,

like warm tea into a cup: slow, steady, unfiltered.

And he held me like he’d been waiting to listen,

not to fix me,

just to be there.

We were in a car, parked under the stars,

two strangers with too much to say,

and all the time to say it.

And for the longest time,

I forgot that song had anything to do with us.

Maybe because it wasn’t a love song.

No violins. No swelling chorus.

Just a tune on the stereo

while something quiet and holy unfolded

between two tired hearts

finally speaking out loud.

Years passed.

I couldn’t remember the music—

only the way I felt.

I’d ask him sometimes,

“What was that song again?”

and he’d remind me.

But it never stayed.

Then one afternoon,

as I held our daughter close

and tried to ease her into sleep,

I played it.

And just like that,

I was back in that car.

Back in that night.

Back with the girl I was

and the man who didn’t let her drift alone.

So no—

this isn’t about the mountains.

It’s about a song that quietly threaded itself

into the fabric of our beginning.

It’s about a man who made room for all of me

in the smallest of spaces.

And the life we’ve built

from that one moment

we both decided to stay.