Saturday swam by—
         college slate on Oscar’s screens…
         Rangers stealin’ one at the Mets, 3–2,

         a late and lovely 8th inning comeback.

Kev called it early,
    so I went home,
    ran the tub hot,
    (no bubbles :( )

    started typing to the blue bubbles instead.

No replies.

Missives, updates,
          a picture or two,
              maybe a song—
      lobbed into midnight
    like notes in a bottle.

By twelve I figured
   you’d slipped to sleep (so Mari)
    so I slowed my sends—
       about one an hour,

    outbox counting time so I didn’t have to.

I drifted somewhere after four.
  At four-thirty,
  you whispered: “Passed out, I’m so sorry.”

I wasn’t awake to catch it—
  but the world felt truer
   once morning told me so.

You had a fake-awake burst,
    answered a few of my night letters…
                                 later,
                     my own fake-awake,
                   I answered you back—
               a relay across the dark,

    handing comfort forward one soft lap at a time.

Only then
     did that deep sleep come,
     the kind that only lands
     when I know you’re safe.

7:20 a.m.— I’m up.
           Shower.
             Keys.
     Out the door.

Oscar’s office by eight,
        command center buzzing,
        Sunday already in full motion.

Outbox empty,
       inbox quiet,
       and somehow that feels enough—

       proof that even unanswered
       can still be heard,

       that a night of outbox offerings is its own small prayer.