It’s Tuesday—
     seven days left.
     I’m already gripping the wheel,
     leaning forward…

     like it’ll help push the clock faster.

Late-night talks
    on a Sunday school-night,
    hours tumbling past midnight,
    deep conversations woven

    into threads I’m still holding long after sunrise.

We crossed lines
   we didn’t see coming—
   not finish lines,

   just starting lines.

Now?

It’s just pavement—
          open road
          stretched from here to Atlanta,
           every hour stretching tighter,
            every minute a little louder,
              every mile a little closer,

          a straight shot waiting for me to just…
                                                 *go*!

Step on the gas, Wednesday.
Keep it floored, Thursday, Friday…

This week’s already written,
     it just needs to fucking *move*,
        pull the distance in tighter,
                       close the gap.
                       Just
                           *Get*
                                Here.

I can feel you Mari,
  on the other end of the week,
  text bubbles that blur into your voice,
  soft laughter threading through the static,

  gently pulling me forward, foot heavy on the accelerator.

Just one week out
     from wheels down,
     from closing the distance again,

     one week out from the next starting line.

Step on the gas—
     every hour counts,
     and I’m so *done* waiting.

Let’s drop the clutch and burn some rubber,
      make this week a blur of asphalt and anticipation.

But most of all—

    Let's just *get there*, already.