Buckhead, you left the lights on—
          neon humming,
          sidewalks warm with yesterday,
          Irby’s stools still spinning
          from midnight laughter,

          each street whispering a story of us.

I’m here at my desk,
    cursor blinking,
    inbox overflowing,
    meetings lined up like dominoes,
    coffee cold before the first sip,

    but all I’m seeing is last night.

Ten-thirty, your entrance—
    electric pulse,
    fast forward pressed,

    two hours stolen from clocks that lie.

Midnight slipped in unnoticed,
         our goodnight dissolved in the shadows
         of the Westin’s sheets,

         fast,
         slow,
         fierce,
         gentle—

         storm and sanctuary, all at once.

One AM took you home,
    left me twisted in hotel linen,
              replaying your touch,
          craving more—always more—

    the distance already too loud again.

Today’s all work, all waiting,
        counting every minute,
        my mind riding MARTA rails,
        heart already circling back,
        fingers tracing lines on maps,
        a thousand roads all leading…

        Back to Buckhead.

Every second between now and then—
      just a footnote,
      another reason
      to close the laptop lid early,

      to trade screen glare
      for the glow of your smile,

      to hurry back to where I belong.