This little PV bounce
     was never supposed to be romantic.

I just still had Jonny’s gift,
                  Tony’s gift,
                  Kiri’s gift—
          after the last trip
                got blowed up
 by all that “PV’s a war zone”
                     carry-on…
   figured I’d get down there,
           handle my business,
and quit lettin’ the internet
            out-write reality.

Turns out…
      not much happened.

A few Oxxo’s got torched.

Mexico rebuilt ‘em in five days,
       which is faster than most teams
                      patch production.

No war.
No apocalypse.
No bodies in the street.

Just smoke,
     sirens,
     fireworks,
     and a whole lotta people
     gettin’ way too excited
     to be scared from a distance.

ANYhow—
       the trip was good.

I got to see my people.
Dropped the gifts.
Got my medical work done.

Laughed enough
        to remember PV still knows me.

And that’s the tricky part.

PV still fits.

Still flatters.

Still pours me a version of myself
                    I like meeting.

But it doesn’t feel like home.

It feels like somewhere
   I’m gonna keep visiting
       until they roll me through customs
                          in a wheelchair.

That’s love.

Home is different.

Home, somehow,
      is Atlanta now.

Which is funny as hell,
      because I don’t even have the keys yet.

I’m still out here
    half-livin’ in Airbnbs,
    half-livin’ out of suitcases,
    full-time pretending

    this is all very normal.

But Fort Worth—
    bless her—

    is starting to feel like the layover.

That’s a weird sentence
       for a Texas boy to write.

A ruder one still:
  when I say I’m heading home now,

       I mean Buckhead.

I mean Irby’s.
I mean Tropicalia.
I mean that office.

I mean the city
  where I bought Braves season tickets
        like a man puttin’ a ring
               on baseball season.

Four seats.

2026.

Go Braves.

That’s not tourism.
That’s commitment.

That’s me telling the universe:

       “Alright, Cowboy, pick a skyline.”

The condo won’t be *mine*-mine
                until April 13.

Until then I’ll wander some.

That part’s alright.

Bougyman was built for the in-between—
                            dim rooms,
                         late flights,
                          weird hours,
  and figuring out where the light is
           before the fear catches up.

But this ain’t aimless wandering.

This is approach.

This is the part
     where the wheels are down,
           the gate’s in sight,
           and even the delays
  can’t change the destination.

I’m not circling anymore.

I’m bound for home.

And yeah, Mari—
    you gave me the coordinates.