January wasn’t a month,
        it was a clearance sale
                    on the past.

PrizePicks paid out
       and I turned into a man
       with a mission and a calculator—

       the kind of spree
       that doesn’t look like champagne,
                 it looks like receipts.

Debt?
Paid down like it talked back.

And then the future—
    I started booking it
    like the calendar owed me money.

Montreal for F1: locked.

Mexico City, too: because of course. (hi Jonny)

Cards @ Wrigley in July: stamped.

Cinco de Mayo in Vallarta: handled.

New Year’s Eve—
    two hundred feet up,
    watching a ball drop
    like a dare I finally took.

It’s all “badass 2026” on paper now,
     all these shiny pins in the map,
     all these little promises
     I can point to and say:

     See? I’m doing it.
          I’m building something.

But here’s the truth
    that doesn’t fit in an itinerary:

    none of that equals
    the simple miracle of you
          in the room with me.

Not the texts.
Not the thread.
Not even the best planned night.

Just… Mari.
Gravity included.

Monday, closing day in Buckhead,
        and I keep saying it out loud
        like it’ll make it more real:

        I’m buying my place.

Two months to move in,
        which is rude,
        so I’m doing what I do—

        a little Mexico,
        a Buckhead AirBnB,
        a bridge made of motion.

Because waiting still feels like waiting,
        even when you dress it up as “plans.”

I’m ready for the key.

Ready for the quiet.

Ready for you to see it—
      to stand in the doorway,
      take it in,

      and decide where you’ll sit.

And mostly,
    I’m ready for the part of 2026
         that doesn’t need tickets.

Just a couch.
A door we pull shut.
Your head on my chest.

January’s behind us.

Now we live.