Tuesday comes wrapped
         in tortillas—
   soft corn memories,
   whispers of PV streets,

   sizzle and citrus
   from taco carts lit by twilight.

I miss it, sure.

The slow dance of
    ocean and mountain,
          night humming

    like it knew secrets even the stars envied.

But not half as much as I miss you.

One day, I’ll walk you down
    my favorite calles,
    let you taste a sunset,
    feel the evening breeze,

    spiced by laughter, seasoned with salt air.

But until then,
    I've got my own kitchen,
    a skillet’s soft sigh,
    cilantro scattered like confetti,

    lime squeezed like a promise,
    spilling salsa secrets,
    hands making magic,
    lips that smile softer when you say: "One more?"

So today—
   let work give away
   their free-square tacos,
   easy bets, safe plays. (yeah, right)

Mine?
     They're wrapped in memory,
     filled with longing,
     plated in hope—

     seasoned just right,
     waiting only for you
     to claim your seat at my table.