It’s Monday.

I’m staring down the week,
    already missing last night’s “Four—Oh Finally“
    that capped a perfect weekend
    spent wrapped in the chaos
    of paws and missed texts,

    recounting victories big and small.

Feels like a blink since
      “Field Notes: Sunday With the Spare“
      had me navigating Coal’s day,
      him quietly wishing
      you’d “Save Me From This Spare“
      with your return,

      with a kiss I’d happily relive in slow motion.

But today, I’m back
    to the chaos of deadlines,
    attempting to “Hack Smarter Not Harder,“
    struggling to be productive,
    with all thoughts drifting

    toward a “Bonus Thursday“
    still glowing like neon in memory.

It’s Monday,
     “Perfectly Eightish“ feels too distant
     and too vague.

Even the afterglow of
     “Tonight Owes Me One“
     begins to dim under
     office fluorescents…

     the brightness of “That Entrance“ fading into static.

So I clock into another
  “Happy Hour, Hold the Happy,“
     mind constantly drifting,
 “Accounting for Distractions,“
     wondering how many hours
        can pass before "soon"
        finally becomes "now."

In this looping montage,
   you’re “Always On,“
   an “Idle Thread“
   that refuses to terminate,
   404’d by distraction with “Focus Not Found,“
   impatiently wishing to get “Back to Buckhead“

   just so I can “Make Time Behave“ again.

Yet somehow, I’m still waiting—
                     “The Wait“
a familiar but unwelcome guest,
    counting drinks in reverse
     with “One More 'Til Mari,“
countdown to “Finally, Friday…“

        an exercise in longing.

But before “Friday“ hits,
    we’ll find our own
    “Irbyversary (Ft. Mari)“
    in everyday moments—
    you teasing out memories of “Taco Tuesday,“
    or us holding our breath,

    playfully whispering “Please Hold,“
    caught mid-laugh in a “Snack Break“
    conversation we refuse to pause.

This isn't nostalgia, Mari—
     it's a living, humming thing,
           passed between glances,
       tucked into texts that say
           everything and nothing,
                shaped by the way
   your eyes do that soft landing
     before your arms follow suit.

A rhythm only we hear, made louder with every Monday.

Every vibrating notification
      a quiet promise,
      a secret “Vibrate Check,“
      another thought surfacing
      “Just Now, in My Head,“
      unreadable yet irresistible,

      a thread I dare you to “Read at Your Own Risk,“
      knowing where it might lead. (please, lead *there*)

It’s Monday,
     the week set on
     “Textual Healing,“
     making up for the skipped rhythms
     of our recent “Skip Day,“
     each hour stretched thin by
     “The Overcommitment Olympics,“

     yet impossibly ordinary on another “Completely Normal Thursday.“

Still, I catch myself
       counting the silences between texts,
       reading your pauses like verses,
       waiting for the next song,
                   the next line

       where your voice comes in again.

I imagine that “Next Kiss,“
  as vivid and sharp
  as the memory of “That Kiss,“
     every hour from “Two Thirty to Ten Thirty“
     marked by echoes of you,
     moments bottled in “Last Call“ clarity

     or noted carefully in “Irby’s Wildlife Report.“

From the gentle surrender of
                  “The Sleep“
      to the anticipation of
                      “Tgif",
we’ve woven something deeper—
            more than just a
        “Late Shift“ longing
   or a sweet “Snuggle Date“.

We’ve built something
      that feels inevitable,
           like the pull of
     “Puck Drop Heart Stop,“
         always negotiating
             who goes first,
       a playful “You First“
 dance we never want to end.

Because when life sends
        “Whatever That Was, I Needed It,“
        we find ourselves
                 grateful,
                 laughing,
      a little breathless,
      and forever slightly
                 “Socked.“

Whether rain or shine,
        “Weather or Not“
        every arrival of mine is
        “Better Late Than Sober,“
        counting down from “Atlanta Eve“
        to the quiet truths we share,
        cherishing every little victory…

        “Even on the Off Days.“

Our story sparked
    when life chose to “Bring the Heat,“
    captured in late-night whispers
    during those gentle “Ghost Hours,“
    urging each other to “Step on the Gas,“

    dancing forever “On the Edge.“

And even when life’s
    “Early Morning Shake“
    tried to unbalance us,
    we navigated between “Two Calendars…“

    stitching us together with “Blood, Sweat, and Tears.“

Through headaches like
        “Brain Pain“
        or conversations under
        “Streetlights at Noon,“
        we still found each other,

        knowing deeply: “Me Gustas.“

Summer proved just how well
       “Summer Looks Good on Us,“
       and each “Next Scene Loading“
       felt like turning pages
       towards something worth exploring

       at our “Second Location.“

Our goodbyes were always temporary,
    like “Farewell, Take 2,“
    just soft refrains before
    “On My Way to You“
    started playing again,
    accepting gracefully
    that we “Can’t Win Them All,“
    but engulfed by each moment

    like “One Last Night (For Now).“

Because distance
        isn’t an obstacle
        when we’re singing
        “Different Rooms Same Song,“
        each night replaying

        “Until the Morning (Again)“ becomes our favorite routine.

Even through quiet welcomes
     like “Welcome Back,“
     you knowing “Everything’s Ready,“
     and our secret messages filed under
     “Eyes Only,“
     we found our roles—
     mine as “The Backup Human,“

     yours as the smile that means “More Than Laughs.“

And when we
    “Almost Watched the Draft,“
    lost in our own conversation,

    Coal quietly noted— “He Smells Like You.“

Through fifty pages,
        our story threaded in titles
           we never imagined writing,
             each one another memory,
                another promise kept,
             another reason to pause
                      to replay this

         ever-growing Monday Montage.

And it’s still just Monday.