Sunday started with an invitation—
               spur-of-the-moment,
                   Oscar’s-issued,
      and completely irresistible.

Jon, a fresh-poured friend
    of the Oscar’s variety,
  spun last-minute tickets
 into our next great story.

Rangers tickets in hand,
    Ava and I raced toward
    Globe Life like we were rounding third,

    smiling wider with each step closer to first pitch.

Stadium lights during the day?
      skeptical but undaunted,
      we entered the ballpark
      with the sun still high,

      Texas heat melting the pavement.

The air: electric, (and _not_ 100F)
    the crowd: alive
      stadium: buzzing

      verdict: perfect.

The game?

Crazy.

Extra innings,
    a comeback
    that teased victory
    at the bottom of the 10th,

    only to watch the Mariners drop a 3-run dagger in the 12th.

Final: Mariners 6, Rangers 3.

But baseball heartbreak
    still tastes better
       in stadium seats,
       even without the
       sunlight on our shoulders… (A/C’s not bad at 100F)

       hot dogs in hand, voices hoarse, spirits high.

Post-game required
     a victory meal anyway—
     Nagoya Teppanyaki,
     a throwback to family nights past.
     Flying shrimp, spinning spatulas,

     and nostalgia served hot with extra garlic butter.

Afterwards—

I assaulted your inbox
  with a novella,
  complete with photographic evidence. (sorry, not sorry)

I captured it all
  in pixels and paragraphs—
  a play-by-play of joy,
  lobbed your way
  like a gentle barrage

  of quiet “wish you were heres.”

You replied
    in carefully curated emoji,
    just enough reaction
    to let me know you saw

    my Sunday scroll unroll.

Enough acknowledgement to keep my words from echoing alone.

Late-night silence
     got me wondering
     where your midnight ramblings went,
     those ghost-written notes

     that once appeared
     when stars blurred
     and clocks laughed.

Been awhile since they made a guest appearance.

Not sure if they’re waiting backstage
    still in wardrobe,
    or just on hiatus—

    but it’s okay.

No pleading, no pressure.

Just a quiet note:
     the inbox is open,
     and your late-night
     literary masterpieces

     always have a reserved seat.