From the west,
    a front slides in…
    a warm pocket of air

    pouring across the plains.

The forecast says rain—
    in STL,
    in DFW,

    somewhere in the sky between us.

She flies this afternoon,
    back to family,
    to that familiar Midwestern pull—
      roots,
    rhythms,

    the warmth that only comes from people
    who knew you before you knew yourself.

She’s headed home.

And me?
    I stay lit,
    low and steady,

    still smoldering from all this waiting.

We didn’t say much yesterday—
    just enough to feel the temperature.

    Just enough to check the weather between us.

It’s easier now,
    now that quiet doesn’t scare us.

Even silence carries heat—
if you know how to listen.

But I can feel it: the front is shifting.

A warm pocket
    settling under the skin,
    an ember tucked tight
    in the chest pocket

    of something that still fits perfectly.

Somewhere between
    her wheels up
    and curtain up for Beetlejuice,
    I'll feel it—

    that shift in the air,
    that soft lift in my chest,

    realizing the heater's been on,
    and you've been warm all along.

It doesn’t take much—
    a song,
    a plane ticket,
    a countdown down to single digits—

    to stir the coals again.

The storms will pass.

The skies will clear.

Next week—
    we strike the match,
    bask in the bonfire,

    and	watch the embers dance.