Opening Day,
        October breath—
        your bracket hidden like a note
        you’re not ready to pass,

        mine already folded into the chat.

Reds for you,
     Blue for me—
     not enemies,

     just edges of the same bright field.

We watch from two couches,
   one tapestry threaded
   by all our little lights:
               a score here,
               a gasp there,
      a picture of a screen,
       a “did you see that?”

   the distance never quite getting what it wants.

My hours have moved earlier again—
        no three a.m. confessions,
   just the quiet sport of timing:
              a voice memo placed
              before your morning…

      so the first sound you hear
          already knows your name.

I imagine the smile
  I can’t see yet,
  the one that lifts the blinds

  from the inside out.

I imagine the song
  that’s already there,
  the one that waits for me

  to hum along.

Reds for you…
             Blue for me.

Two colors painting the same picture,
           two hearts matching tempo—
            a game we both wanna win. (can’t lose)

When the innings turn,
     we’ll borrow each other’s joy—

     trade solace like a soft glove passed across the couch.

Tonight the brackets bloom,
        tomorrow they change—
        but the thread stays steady,

        tugging us closer…
                          one small light at a time.

Call it playoffs.
Call it practice. (note the tags)

Call it what we’ve learned to do:
             hold different colors,
                  make one picture,

and meet in the middle of every “go.”