Last night was Us—

Monday Night Football with the gang,
                        then Sylvan,
                the kind of cuddles
             we‘d both been needing
         for longer than we’d admit.

Talked ‘til 3 a.m.,
       the way we do
       when time forgets itself.

At the door you said,
   “I’m not going to see you tomorrow, Tj.”

I nodded.

I believed you.
  (I tried to)

10:50 a.m. today: “I’m hungry.”

We both know what that means…

Lunch appeared, easy as breathing.

You ate,
    I worked,
    we shared a room
    and the same soft air.

Then I cancelled my flight, (obviously)
     booked another Sylvan night—
     because not tomorrow…
                          not yet.

This streak— our longest by far, Mari,
                 it’d be such a shame
         to come up shy of the record
 for something as silly as a schedule—

You might come back this afternoon,
                   or this evening.
               (nap factor pending)

You teased bringing Coal for a nap—
                     extraordinary,
   even if only for a single dream.

Either way, I’ll be here.

Lights on, (or off, as needed)
       breath steady,
              us being *Us*.

The best August—
    sliding into the best September,
                     hand over hand,
                   night over night—

    and every time tomorrow tries to interrupt,
                               we whisper back:

                                 “Not tomorrow,
                                      not yet.”