Three days away?

Please.

We don’t count *down*.

We’ve been counting *up*
    since “The Question” turned into “An Answer,”
    since “The Ding” became a ritual,

    since “This Hug” landed even without arms attached.

This started somewhere between
    “Una Pregunta Más” and “Next Christmas,”
    but now we’re deep into the kind of story

    that doesn’t fit in a single scroll.

Since “No Words (Yet)” somehow said everything.

We stacked moments like poker chips—
    a “Stormy Night” here,
    a “Slow Burn” there,

    “Tomorrow’s Tetris” packed with doubt and optimism (folded neatly).

One "Sleep Date."
Two "Exquisite Nights."
Three (maybe four) “Three Days” we survived already.

It’s in the “Awakening,”
    the "Lightning Delay" that ruined our plans,
    the "Wrong Think" that cracked something open—

    the “Reverse Three Days” we never want to reverse again.

It's in “Gitana,”
    how even my dog started walking with rhythm

    once you showed up between the words.

We count up in
    “Ruthless Layovers,”
    coffee cups,

    playlists titled “Our Song (maybe).”

In “Midnight Shifts,”
    “Seven Day Forecasts,”
    “Flights 1248,”

    and even that weekend when no words were spoken.

In “Tongue Tied,”
    you stopped me mid-sentence—

    with a fucking sentence.

We’ve lived in “Slow Burn”s and “Lyfting Time”s,
    survived “Rain Delays,”
    ridden out “Warm Fronts” and “Holding Patterns,”
    and somehow landed in the middle of “A New ____’s Eve”
    without ever naming the blank.

We didn’t write “The List” of things that keep me from thinking of you.

(That’s because it’s (all but) blank)

But we *did* find ourselves "Waiting for Waiting",
    and spiraled into “Ramblings, More or Less” by necessity.

We wore “The Curse of the Cap,”
    and joked about “Mr. Jinx,”
    even as the Braves lost

    and Pops kept the Dodgers clean.

We started with “Zero Luck”,
    left nothing "Unsaid".
    got "Uncomfortable”,
    went "Upside Down",

    and knew: “This Isn’t Hollywood”.

I got “Writer’s Block,”
    right before “One More One More (Again).”
    And somehow—

    still stacking ramblings like chips in Vegas.

We’ve done
    “Travel,”
    “Restocking,”
    “Repacked,”
    “Rebooking,”
    and a thousand ways of saying:

    *I’d rather be wherever you are.*

We count
    every “Good Morning” sent from Oscar’s, (or wherever)
    every time she actually *laughed* at a voice note,

    every “Wanna sleep?” that meant *more* than it said.

Every “Unwritten,”
    every “Spun Out,”
    every brew from "The Multiverse Coffee Shop",

    every “Storm Chaser” fantasy.

We count the ramblings that maybe didn’t click,
    but were still *felt*. ("Three Forty")

I count the ones she screenshot, (I think)
        the ones she reread twice, (I hope)
        the ones that didn't click, (right away)

        but landed later.

She counts the Braves games I didn’t jinx,
           the Dodgers games Pops probably rigged,
           the bracket I should have filled out,

           the various losses we just don't talk about. (my fault)

We count
    “Hot Dates” that weren’t dates,
    “Fat Tuesdays” that felt holy,
    “Xenic Longing” and “Bittersweet Returns” and

    every "7th Inning Stretch" that gave us a moment to steal a moment.

We don’t count down like we’re waiting to start.

We count *up*
    because we already did.

We are.

We’re the sum of
    “Low Seasons” and “High Stakes,”
    packed bags, missed texts,

    canceled flights and rekindled fire.

Three days?

That’s not a countdown.

That’s a reminder
    that the numbers aren’t running out—

They're adding up.

Every page.
Every ding.
Every sigh between poems.

We met “In Her Voice”
    and spent whole afternoons lost in “Our Song.”

We said goodnight with “Not Good Morning,”
    woke up laughing through “Sunday Funday,”
    and barely survived “Mucous Monday”—

    with our noses, pride, and plans intact.

We gave in to “Temptation Airlines,”
    wrote “Stormy Night” by candlelight,
    and built “New Perspective”s

    one inside joke at a time.

“April’s Fool”?
    Guilty.

“Smells Like Her (Almost)”?
    Still lingering.

“Between Poems,”
    “From the Beginning,”
    “Closer,”
    “Overloaded,”
    “Onion,”
    “The Space Between Us,”
    and the always-relevant
    “Million”—

    have all been folded neatly into the kind of story
    that *no one else* would believe is real.

But we do.

Because we’ve lived every line of it.

One “Ellipsis” at a time.

Not counting *down*.
Not holding *back*.

Just counting *up*.

And up.

And up.

Until “The Reader” clicks again.

Until the next “Ding.”

Until we’re out of titles…

    and right where we belong.

We don’t wait.

We *build*.

We don’t count down.

We *count us*.

(…)