It was one of those Saturdays
   that just felt… *easy*. (too easy?)

Crawfish boil at Oscar’s.
Shrimp the size of small regrets.
Laughter echoing off the patio fans.

Everyone had a plate. (I had three)

The Rangers walked it off
   in the bottom of the ninth—

   two-run homer,
   perfect swing.

The Dodgers took the loss.
(Love you, Pops. Sorry, Pops.)

The Lakers? Humiliated.
The Braves? Solid.
The Cardinals? Well… next game.

I bounced between screens and sips,
   letting the day hold me,
   the hours blur around me,

   sunk into the softness of it all.

She was off in STL,
   adoring and being adored,
   glowing quietly through a gender reveal,
   doing that thing she does—

   softly stitching herself into the fabric of the moment.

We didn’t talk much.
But we talked enough.

A couple of check-ins.
A few dumb jokes.

And that one photo—
   the one I could hear her laugh in,
   the one that made me close my eyes
   just to *almost* remember…

   how she smells when she leans in,
   hair barely brushing against skin,
   just enough to feel it later.

No perfume.
No projection.

Just skin and air and whatever soap
   she accidentally turned into her signature.

It’s weird what you miss.

Not the big stuff,
   not the dramatic,
   not even the kiss…

Just the presence.
The *trace* of it.

I’ll see her soon. (never soon enough)

But today was one of those days
   where I could *almost*
   feel her in the room.

Like she had just stepped out,
   or was about to walk in.

Not yet.

But almost.