Missed the train I wanted,
 caught the night I meant.

Sylvan before midnight—
       not the 11:30 I promised…
       close enough to admit I tried.

Your texts on the rails: “Sleepy, but trying…”

Me: “That’s not the assignment”.

Please rest. (sleepy visits in the wee hours are _not_ our specialty)

Coal gets your shoulder,
     I’ll make myself small
     and useful somewhere else.

Elbow Room, late—
      a corner barstool that minds its own business.

A slice,
 A pint,
   Lakers not on the TV (of course),
   so I set the game up on my laptop

   and let the bar forget me.

This is what care looks like tonight:
     not two rushed minutes
          posing as romance,

     but leaving the porch-light math intact—

     you + sleep = tomorrow with a chance.

I take inventory:
  keys,
  wallet,
  charger,
  patience (present),

  “yes” (stays packed)

I write a little,
  listen to the ice settle,
  practice the quiet that doesn’t knock.

Outside,
        the city edits its own sentences.

Inside,
       I reserve a softness
       with your name on it.

On time for what matters,
   just late for what doesn’t—

   the kind of trade I’ll make every time.

If the stool across from me looks empty,
   it’s just reserved for a better time.

If the smile looks practiced,
       that’s because I'm rehearsing
       the one I'll give you
            when you wake up.

Tomorrow’s shape is still unknown—
        an hour,
           or ten,

           or something smarter than clocks.

We’ll spend it like we mean it,
         small talk that lands,
                  bigger quiet,
    maybe a walk where the air
            decides to be kind.

For now,
    game on a small screen,
    slice paper-plated,
    a note I’ll send before your morning—

    the sort that doesn’t ask for an answer,
    just holds the place.

I came here for you, Mari,
  and the proof is simple…

I let tonight be yours,
  so tomorrow can be…
                     ours.