Rooftop at St. Julep, just after nine—
                          half-inside,
           big screen breathing light,

           a soft breeze editing the heat.

Tacos, please.
Brisket (yes),
   fish (hmm).

You with brisket & chicken,
    me pretending not to keep score.

The NLCS above us,
    Dodgers 5–1,
    blue carrying the night,
    series tipping my (our?) way

    while your laugh kept the bartop honest.

Then 308,
     the door closing like a quiet agreement,
     conversation taking off its shoes—
     and the kind of cuddles
     that arrive as an instant,
            last as an eternity…
              both true at once,

              both the only thing that mattered.

Afterglow until 1:30 a.m.,
          the room saying our names
          without needing to speak them.

You left like you do—
              prompt,
               clean,
no trailing ellipsis.

Pure Mari—
     a signature I’ve learned to love.

I went stone-out fast,
  then the morning turned on me—
  fish came back like a fourth quarter blitz,
  put me on a first-name basis with the tile…

  every couple hours.

Today the call began and never ended,
      infrastructure deployment holding my day
      like it rented the place.

I’ve lived on water and willpower,
     pretending crackers are a meal,
     pretending an agenda is a lullaby.

But I’m finally hungry for more than survival,
          the room remembering how to be kind,
                   my stomach calling a truce.

You said: “Nap date?”

“This afternoon?”

“Yes.”

A gentle yes.
A bring-your-breath, leave-the-world _yes_.

Let the screens talk to themselves.
Let the city be somewhere else.

We’ll press time flat between us
        and make another forever
                 out of an hour—

An Instant and an Eternity…
                           again.

(Fucking yay)