Eleven o’clock and your face
       blooming out of the dark—

       forty-eight minutes of everything:

       the heavy stuff,
       the wish-you-were-hereness,
       the parts we hold with two hands.

I said it out loud:
  “I can’t fly, I’d stay.”

Not a question of wings—
    just calendars
    and names on my day.

Boulder has my lanyard waiting,
        slides still needing their commas,
        family’s circled on my week

        like stars I promised to navigate by.

We joked the math:
   if I sprint to the airport now,
      somehow land before I board,
                          hug you,
                     reverse time,
        make it back for check-in—

I’d need a cape,
    and I only packed sweaters.

So we do the possible—
   you tell me the hard things,
   I hold them as if holding you.

I tell you the must-dos,
  and you let me be a person

  who does them right.

Somewhere offscreen,
          the Yankees remembered how to finish,
          and the late game inched past midnight

          with a tired kind of glory.

Good for them.

Our win was quieter—
    a call that lasted long enough
    to make distance behave.

When the goodbyes tipped sad,
     I wanted to say “be right there,”
     but what I have is
     “be right *here*,”
     in the small ways—

     voice notes placed like porch lights,
     texts that land before coffee,
     a promise with a date stamped on it.

I can’t fly—
   I’d stay.

So I’ll do what I *can* do—
             work the list,
            keep the oaths,
            pack the shirt
  you laughed against last…

  and meet you at the first open door
  after the gate calls my name.

Until then—
      hold this like a ticket stub.

I’d be there if I could,
    and because I can’t…
    I’ll honor you by doing

    exactly what keeps me coming back to you.