Strange how far a summer can stretch—
        from a Four—Oh, Finally smile
         that capped one perfect day,
                  to turning Page 51…

   the story just kept spilling away,
     longer than we thought it could,
brighter than we let ourselves admit.

Mondays came like clockwork,
      a Move It Monday here,
     a Monday Montage there—
  my week stitched together
   by whatever glow we left
      from the night before.

Sometimes it was a Tuesday in the Way,
          a Spoiler Alert we never wanted— (sorry, Coal)
          a Juneteenth or Whatever moment
                     where life got messy,
                   and all I could do was
          jot a Dat Recap and keep moving.

Other times it was sweeter—
      a Summer Break, Not Broken,
      a Make Up Text that turned
      Snooze Reversal into
      a Trying (Not) to Plan game
      we both knew I’d lose.

Because I’d still leave this tab open,
        Unread, Not Unfelt,
        your name lighting my phone

        Sleep Deprived & Sweet on Me,
        nothing spectacular,
        ordinary magic, in real-time.

I’d rather be
    This Close, This Crazy,
    laughing at how tornado sirens
    and atmospheric pressure
    became Independence Szn…
    when Coal’s Log
    was just another story
    of Red, White, and You.

Playing Through became the only option—
        no tail number, no peace,
        just Ray Before Coffee
        and Eyes on Wrigley,
        or an Oh Four, For Sure night
        when the scoreboard hurt.

But even Smash Landing flights
    and Mulligan the 9ths (how many mulligans do we get?)
    eventually turned to
    Autumn in July,

    when the air shifted again.

Of course there was The One Where I Left Too Soon—
            you showing up just as I slipped away, (bummer)
           and the nights where You’re Killing Me
                           wasn’t just a metaphor.

Derby Day Divided, Spirits United
      still felt like we were together,
      even when Death by Nachos

      had me Resurrected by Incident Response.

Wednesday: Rally Mode,
           told myself I was Solo, But Not Lonely—
           though 0 for 4, But…

           was exactly how it felt.

So I poured Mariposas on Draft,
     cringed at the Protocol Violation,
     and prayed for Not That Night—This One
     to be the one that stuck.

Still On This Frequency,
      I whispered,
      even as I told myself Don’t Say It Out Loud,
      because Wildcard Positioning
      shows us the universe listens too closely.

Don’t Wake the Universe, I begged—
      even while the Playlist is Playing Us Again

      made it impossible to pretend
      you weren’t in my head,
      impossible not to hit repeat.

There were Benched weekends,
      Stupid Mouth, Smart Save texts,
      nights of Snuggle Stats

      tallied quietly at the BNB.

La Grotta, La Verità (“the truth”)
   hit harder than I wanted,
   but Helium and Heartbeats
   kept me floating
   long enough to find us again

   Off the Scoreboard.

Some mornings came too early—
     Good Morning, Just Barely—
     others dragged like Four on the Field…

     only the skeleton crew and me holding space.

And here we are:
    fifty-five threads later,
                all stitched,
                     knotted,
                     tangled—

      not a list but a quilt,
              messy but warm,
   ordinary and unbelievable,
             still unfolding.

#306—
     every title,
     every stanza,
     every inning,
     every rambling—

     the story is less about
          what I wrote down,
     and more about the fact

     that I’m still writing.