Groceries for exactly twenty-three days-
                           nothing more,
                           nothing less.

My favorite meat,
   from my favorite butcher,
   measured precisely-

   each portion counted,
   each bite marking time.

A Petco run,
   Gitana and Cinco spoiled,
   twenty-three days of treats,

   twenty-three apologies
   for leaving them again.

A small gift for Jonny—
   a token of gratitude
   and a subtle reminder:

   I’ll need your car again soon.

Every choice calculated,
   every item placed carefully,
   because my mind is already packing,
                      already plotting,
                      already *gone*.

There's a quiet weight
   to living between moments—
   each goodbye a small grief,

   each reunion a brief resurrection.

Twenty-three days—
   not forever,
   but feels close enough

   when I'm restocking an entire life…
               just to leave it again.

Counting days,
   counting hours,
   counting down to wheels up,
                     heart up,

   and restocking my world…
                           with her.