You’ll be all in tonight.
         As it should be.

Ballpark buzz,
    St. Louis red on your sleeve,
    head high,
    voice: locked and loaded— (battle-ready)

    every bit of you right where it belongs.

Me?
    I’ll be watching too.
    Every pitch.
    Every replay.

    Every camera pan that might catch your outline in the crowd—
          mid-scream,
          beer in one hand,
          foam finger scolding the ump like he owes you money.

We won’t text much.
Wouldn’t expect to.

We’re both good at living exactly where we are.

We’ve never needed the play-by-play
      to feel like we’re part of it.

That’s why the silences don’t scare me—
They carry the same weight as the words.

And anyway—
    the space between us is already full:

    - your songs in my headphones, or on the jukebox wherever I go
    - those photos that stop me cold when I need your smile the most
    - voice clips I haven’t deleted— though you already know them by heart
    - these ramblings… quiet postcards from my side of the screen,
                       folded and sent so you don’t have to ask

That's enough, no?

So—

You: fully present tonight.
Me:   right there with you.

Not in the stadium, but under the noise.

Somewhere between pitch count and possibility.