Somehow Sunday,
        somehow intact.

East-to-west this time—
      farther from you,
   one more hour added
  to the space between.

No helmets today,
   both of our teams on pause…
   the only score that matters

   is miles.

You fake-woke
    and sent a song—

“Latch,” soft and certain.

I’ve been hunting a reply
     that lands the same way,
     that knows where to hold.

Yankees chasing in Toronto,
 Seattle bruised in eleven,
 Cubs slipped in Milwaukee—
       none of your colors
found the ribbon yesterday.

So I let my Dodgers’ light
      glow a little warmer
            for both of us.

Airport math begins:
               gate,
               line,
               seat,
      the long taxi
      that feels like waiting’s echo.

Mountains ahead like folded napkins,
               sky so dry it creaks.

I want Denver to hurry,
       Boulder to blur,
       sessions to stack and fall
       like tidy dominoes—

       so the next itinerary can say your name.

Until then,
      I’ll leave you small things:
    a voice note for your morning,
     a picture of the window wing,
a promise written in carry-on ink.

I’m latching to that—
    the way your hello
    turns distance into furniture,

    and time into a hallway I already know how to walk.

Runway,
       roll,
            lift,
                 lean—

And somewhere past these peaks
    the path bends back

    to the hug I’m saving for.