It’s the final weekend—
    but nothing’s final

    and this weekend _won’t end_.

Time is thick.
     Stretchy.
       Sticky.

The kind of slow that mocks you out loud.

I’m watching Monaco try not to fall apart,
             The Sun: refusing to set,
             pitch clocks count down—

    I’m watching Nothing: move. (fast enough)

We joked again—
   about her flying in early.

A little DFW detour.

A shared room.

A moment snuck in sideways.

But it would’ve stolen time
    from the ones who need her,
    and I’d have missed…

    the part of this trip that can’t be skipped.

So we sighed and hit pause on that fantasy, too.

Now—
    it’s all slow sips of baseball,
    minutes measured in mound visits,

    at-bats drawn out like they know I’m waiting.

Every noise is distraction.

Every silence is her name…
                          waiting to be typed.

I’m pacing in lowercase,
    saving my uppercase for that Wednesday, (Tuesday?)

    the one with the Her in it.

Almost packed.

Almost gone.

Almost there.

But today is a slow burn
    tasting of smoke and seconds…

    and I'm still pacing the flame.