She rambled last night—
    not the quiet kind,
    but a full scroll’s worth

    of thought and wonder, spilled softly while I… *napped*!

Why did the best part of her have to bloom
right in that space just before I arrived?

I woke into it,
    like stepping into a room mid-conversation-

Deep thoughts,
    sharp turns,
    playful flicks of wit,

    no mush, just real.

Clever and clear,
    with just enough edge to know she meant it all.

I missed the start,
    slept through
    lightning over Buckhead,
    a long rain delay,

    and her mind unfolding in paragraphs.

But I woke just in time.

The Braves were still tied.
    We messaged through extra innings.
    Then—

    walkoff win in the 11th.

She hadn’t seen it yet.

I got to type it first.

She let me have that.

This morning,
    she sent a reel of the storm—
    light strobes over her city,
    like the sky was thinking, too.

    Like the clouds were pacing in time with her mind.

And me?
    Still catching up.
    Still scrolling.
    Still amazed.

Still rubbing the sleep from my mind—
    chasing the tail of a brilliant night…

    I almost missed.