Work party ended at 8.
     I wandered back to Irby’s.
     Same stool, different night.

The Stars lost—
     game 7 now.
     Whatever.

I wasn’t really watching the screen.
I was waiting for the next one to light up.

Then:
     10pm.
     The note.

"I'm on the way to you."

That was it.
That was everything.

We closed the bar. (again)
   Laughed at nothing. (anything)

   Finished drinks we didn't need. (but definitely wanted)

Then back to the Sylvan—
     not to stay up (too) late,
     not to keep chasing some perfect version of the night—

     just to… *be still*

We slept.

Really, really slept. (really)

That kind of sleep
     where you won’t move
     because the other person’s breath
     is perfectly aligned with yours.

Woke up four times.
Cuddled every time.

Finally decided to open our eyes
     at 10am.
     (I know, I know.)

Watched the "Not Top 10"
     like it was a love language.

Then Ironman. (Ironman?)

Because why not?

Because limbs were still…
     learning wtf to do
     after all that wanting.

Missed my flight. (obviously)
Rescheduled for tonight.
No one surprised.
No one mad.

At noon, she went home.
     No fanfare,
     no big deal,

     a gentle departure.

Coal might swing by later—
         a goodbye patrol,
                  a treat,
         definitely a hug.

And me?

I’m just sitting here
     thinking about how sometimes (all the time)
     the only thing I really need (ever need)
     is to read those seven words (on repeat)

"I'm on the way to you"

And then shows up.