“Did he check my dates?”
“Did she clear her schedule?”

“Probably not”
“Definitely not”

One is marked in hard ink, (hers)
    all caps,
    no margins.

Mondays blocked for focus,
    weekends framed for recovery,

    each square a tight grid of purpose.

The other? (mine)
    a little more chaotic,
    a little more open,

    with a few too many blank spaces.

Scribbles and cross-outs,
   flight numbers circled,
   birthdays with question marks,

   side notes like “ask her if she’s good for Sunday”

“Are you sure that flight lands on the 18th?”
“Are you sure she’s even free?”

“I’m free”
“Of course I’m free”

“But is she?”
“But is he?”

One of them flips pages loudly,
    the kind of calendar that doesn’t like to be ignored,
    the kind that rolls its eyes at late-night changes

    and last-minute bookings. (and re-bookings)

The other is patient,
    loose-leafed,
    corners dog-eared,

    with a list of crossed-out “maybes” that still get a second glance.

“I’m holding that weekend”
“I’m holding my breath”

“Don’t get your hopes up”
“I never do”

“Liar!”
“*Quiet*”

A few dates line up,
  moments that sync like perfect applause,
  a Tuesday stretched into a Thursday,
  a Friday that refuses to end,

  a Sunday that should’ve been a Saturday.

“Look at that, we matched up”
   “Don’t get used to it”
         “I won’t”
          “Liar”
         “*Shhh*”

Two calendars,
    leaning into each other,
    bending a little to make the days fit,

    trading soft jabs while nobody’s looking.

One a little too organized, the other a little too eager.

Both quietly hoping—
                    the dates stick this time.