Boulder greeted me with rain—
        ten minutes off the plane
        and the sky started speaking

        in one long, drizzly sentence.

I took it as a benediction, or a dare.

Either way, soaked is soaked.

You slept through my flight
      (classic Sunday save),
      woke late with weekend still in your hair,
      and we traded a few small futures—

      my birthday,
      your St. Louis tug,
      Agent Coal on standby like a tuxedoed secret agent.

Part of me wants my classic ritual “celebration”—
                                a quiet birthday,
                                alone on purpose,
             reset button in the middle of a map.

Part of me wants your laugh in the doorway
     and Coal’s paws tap-tapping through the room.
                (We’ll see. The door will tell us.)

Morning gave me your “I miss you so much” gif—
                    a soft flare in the gloom.

I answered with steam still on my mirror,
  then a voice memo set gently on your morning

  like a cup you don’t have to reach for.

This conference will attempt to keep me busy—
                                     lanyard,
                                        talk,
    side conversations shaped like mountains.

I’ll let it, mostly.

I’ll still check the weather of your silence,
     still write you little weathers of my own.

Later the screens will wake:
      Dodgers/Phillies (we’re split),
          Brewers/Cubs (split again),

      KC and Jacksonville measuring yards between cities.

We’ll watch together apart,
      our thread doing its calm,
      ordinary miracle—

      turning distance into furniture we know how to sit on.

If you go to St. Louis, I’ll cheer. (with Coal, my co-pilot)

If you stay, I’ll love that too. (but feel selfish about it)

Either way, I’ll keep a stool warm in my head,
       a pillow turned down at the BNB of next time,
       a schedule that leaves room for the unplanned yes.

It’s raining harder now,
     and I like that the mountains don’t mind.

I’m learning from them:
       hold your shape,
  let what passes pass.

One day closer, all day long—
    that’s the quiet math I’m carrying…

    coffee → talks → games → a goodnight that lands on time.

By lights out,
   I’ll be a few inch-moons west of missing you,
   pockets full of little proofs
   that the hallway between us keeps shortening

   even when our feet stay still.

I’ll send you one more memo before sleep— (at least)
            not because I can’t be there…

        because this is how I *am* there.