All weekend I wrote around the ache—
    Coal reports instead of missing you,
    mission logs where the longing
    stayed off-stage,

    tidy nouns in place of the verb I didn’t say.

I kept the frown away on purpose—
               sent patrol notes,
               treat inventories,
              bedtime timestamps,

    anything but “come back soon,”
    anything but the weight of it.

Then: wheels down,
      window down—
      your laugh beckons Coal,
             thin from travel,
           still unmistakable.

Pizza on the counter,
      two slices warming the room,
             and one simple touch—
                shoulder to chest—
             like a switch thrown.

We snuggled five hours… on purpose,
   calling it a nap,
   because names don’t matter

   when the body remembers home.

Coal tucked in like punctuation,
                   breath small,
                        certain.

And now the quiet I carried can finally speak:
    how the couch felt too wide without you,
    how the night kept checking the door,
    how I set the AC to your number

    and waited for the house to settle.

The silence protected us—
    kept you light across the ocean,
    let me be the spare with steady hands,

    no edge,
    no pull.

But the reunion released what it stored:
               the swallowed thank-yous,
                    the pocketed relief,

 the low hum that says we’re safe again.

I could list all the little proofs—
                  keys on the tray,
             your hair on my shirt,
    the way my shoulder unclenched
                    without asking—

    but it’s simpler than that:

    you’re here,
    and the room finally tells the truth.

If I must sum it, I’ll say this:
   I missed you quietly
   so I could adore you loudly
   when that door finally opened.

Coal approves with one slow blink,
              the lamp clicks off,
             and the room exhales.