New October,
    same seats—
    we lean into the glow,
    pretend the games are the point.

They’re not.

It’s the thread between pings,
     the tiny lift you tuck into a “mm,”
     the way my screen burns…

     like a lighter cupped against the wind.

You take your side in red,
    I drift toward blue,
    somehow the colors stop arguing

    once they pass through us.

Early, I brag about a good start:
       you send back a smile with brakes on it—
            easy, easy… let the inning breathe.

I hold my superstition by the collar
                   and sit back down.

Somewhere a first swing sounds like flint,
             later a second does the same—
                      we don’t name names.

We let the room enjoy its secrets.

Between innings we trade the real things:
                         a borrowed calm,
                    a nudge toward sleep,
      a picture of nothing in particular
           that somehow means everything.

Tonight’s lesson (again):
          we don’t have to match to rhyme.

Your quiet is a metronome,
     my grin is lousy at whispering…

     together the timing works.

By the time the late game yawns,
   all the important scores are internal:
   patience 1, panic 0

   tenderness still leading.

Second night, same string—
                  I pluck,
               you answer,
   October behaves itself…

   just enough to let us win
   what we actually came for.