Morning loads in gold—
        Jackets at Duke preview on the screen,
              my coffee making small promises.

I’ll text you the good parts
     and keep the superstitions quiet.
                  (go Jackets, softly)

We did yesterday the way we do best:
             threaded—busy but near—
       you with Coal’s calm cadence,
           me holding Irby’s corner
                  like a lucky coin.

Together apart still counts—
         we’ve proven it enough to stop explaining.

Dusk gets a ticket and a mic—
     Helium in Alpharetta,
     a room ready to laugh us lighter.

On the way back,
   we can swing by Coal’s place
  for the customary relief walk…
                     his patrol,
                      our pause.

If the night asks for Irby’s,
                we’ll let it.

If it asks for Sylvan early,
   I won’t argue with that, either.

After dark the coast pulls us west—
      Mariners–Jays,
      the late hum,
      our borrowed blue-and-teal cheering

      stitched across a couch and a barstool.

Somewhere between innings
     I’ll think about last night’s miracle—
   Ohtani with a 3HR vs 2H out of thin air, (!)
                              sweep sealed,
                           history humming.

You called it “tolerable.” I grinned.
Progress is a funny, beautiful thing.

Call this the final flare of the birthday run—
      no candles lit, just a day set to “yes”.

Jackets early,
        Helium at dusk,
               Mariners late.

You, me, a thread that knows the route.

If the hours get loud,
   we’ll build our room inside them.

If they go easy,
   we’ll let them.

Either way, meet me where the evening opens—
      I’ll bring a pocketful of laugh-after,
                          a quiet for later,
                    and that look that says:

        “This is exactly where I want to be”