This bus—
     taking its sweet,
     sluggish time,
     every headlight
          a false hope,
     every shadow
          a cruel tease.

MARTA #12,
      officially the longest distance
      between duty and desire.

Patience? Frayed.

Pulse? Racing.

Thoughts? Already settled
          at that corner stool,
                       my spot,
            your stool waiting—

          two stools with just enough space
          for your smile to slide in.

Irby’s door creaks open,
       same old hinges,
       same comforting chime,
       same faces nodding in greeting.

Home enough to quiet restless feet,
              calm jittery fingers.

But calm doesn’t stick—
    not when I’m waiting on that entrance.

The one you don’t even know you make,
                          eyes first,
                   searching briefly,
              then locking onto mine—

    a half-smirk you try not to show…
               failing spectacularly.

That Entrance—
     that slow-motion pivot of your step,
                        no purse to toss,
                  ease in your shoulders,
              calm arriving ahead of you,

       settling into our familiar script.

Until then—
      I sip,
      shift,
      tap a rhythm
      that matches your approaching heartbeat…

      and wait for the moment
      you turn this bar into our world again.