I keep trying to kill time.

Break it apart.

Stretch it thin.

Turn the clock into something I can outpace.

Workouts help.

I stack them—
        yoga,
        running,
        mobility,
        balance board drills,
        strength before dinner.

Is it two hours a day now?

Then:
    the “work“, (that's not really work)
    the pacing between tasks, (breathing room)
    the shaping of these ramblings, (the best time)

    like they’re the only thing keeping me tethered.

Baseball fills the gaps.
    Four games a day,

    easy.

Each one a small distraction,
    a little ritual to keep the ache on ice.

She gave platelets yesterday—
    three hours in a chair,
    watching a movie,

    a moment of stillness she hadn’t had since I left.

We tell ourselves it’s about passing time.

But really—
    we’re trying to buy it.

She sends flight screenshots:
                DFW arrivals!
                half-teasing,
                half-serious.

I refresh the apps,
    run hypothetical calendars,

    invent logistics that almost make sense.

Twelve days.

I remind myself: “We’ve done more with less.“

Still,
    I feel it—

    that little tug behind every moment.

That quiet urgency to get to the next one… faster.

To skip ahead,
    just a few pages…
    to the part where we stop
    killing (or buying) time—

    and finally start spending it.