Two days in Puerto Vallarta
    and my batteries don’t just recharge—
    they come back online,
                  humming,
                impatient.

Wednesday disappeared in the best way:
                      mi Compa and me
            shootin’ the shit so long
               the clock had to admit
              it was Thursday already…
                      (and then some)

Thursday—
         beach all morning,
         sun doing what it does down there:
              sanding down the sharp edges
                 I pretended I didn’t have.

Quick dentist stop—Big Sonrisa,
      because PV will shine your teeth
      and your mood

      in the same visit.

Back for one more beach bake,
     then Captain Don’s
     for a rock show
     that felt like the city saying,

     “no te olvides de mi.”

     (“don’t forget me.”)

Early night.

Hotel quiet before 10 p.m.
      as if I’m suddenly responsible.
      (as if I didn’t know I’d be up
               _before_ the chickens)

Now it’s 4:30 a.m.
    and I’m headed back to Atlanta
    with that travel-day cushion on purpose—
    not to be dramatic,

    just to be ready.

I keep bouncin' between two cities
  like a coin that won't stay down—
              every landing a “yes”
            every takeoff a recoil.

Because tomorrow is The Big Day:

Back where it all started,
     me taking you to the PrizePicks
     “we got acquired” blowout—
     like it’s prom night

     for grown-ups with dashboards.

Tonight I’ll do the Irby’s thing—
            one drink, one stool,
                  a soft landing,
                   an early exit…

       so I can show up tomorrow
              with my eyes clear
      and my grin already loaded.

Sunday I ricochet again—
       back to PV for more sun,
       a few more days of salt and reset,
       because I’m learning I can love two places

       without betraying either.

ATL is home now, yeah—
    but PV will always keep a hand on my sleeve,
    a friend who knows exactly where you’re going
    and still says, “stay another song.”

See you in a minute, Compa.

And you, Mari—
         tomorrow we celebrate loud…

         then back to us,
         the quiet part,
         the part we keep.

(…breath)