It wasn’t a fireworks kind of day—
   more like a bunt single,
   a quiet trot to first,

   a slow, easy stretch between innings.

You had your world.
        I had mine.

Texts slipping in like warm-up throws,
      just enough to keep the arm loose,

      the connection unbroken.

No play-by-play,
   no dramatic walk-offs,
   just the steady beat,
   the familiar rhythm

   of two people who know the score.

Dinner with friends,
       warm fingers on wine glasses,
       endless pastas, easy laughs—

       silently resisting the urge to check my phone for Mari updates,
       a short night…

       and me, closing the laptop before dusk. (for once)

You, probably snuggling up with Coal,
                   one eye on a game,
               one foot out the door,
 rolling your eyes at my latest text, (or lack of)
         cool sheets on a warm night,
     the quiet kind that didn’t need
    the constant hum of conversation.

A night of warmth and maybe-just-maybe missing me.

Even on the off days—
     you’re still the background noise,
     the reason my phone feels heavier,
     the name I’d rather see on the screen,

     your texts landing like a hand on my shoulder.

Even on the off days—
     we keep the line warm,
     the distance small,
     the pulse steady,

     like we’ve already figured out how to win without swinging.

Maybe we’ll never have that perfect 4-0, (3-0 again yesterday)
      never hit every mark,

      never clear the bases every night.

But even on the off days,
    I’m still rounding back to you,
    still checking the score,

    pretending I’m not counting every hour until I can hear your voice again.

And yeah, it’s enough. (for now, anyway)