Back on (the) Track

Mon, 18 May 2026 12:57:28 -0500

Yesterday,
the thread came back
while I was at dinner
with Ava,
mi Compa Jonny,
_and_ family.
Which is to say:
In the middle of actual life,
right when I needed it most.
Not alone with the phone
turning silence over
like evidence.
Not pacing some little courtroom
I built out of worry
and bad lighting.
Just there.
A table.
People I love.
The regular noise
of everybody being beautifully
in and out of the way.
And then:
Mari.
Not fireworks.
Not the movie version.
No dramatic door
kicked open
by the third act.
Just the thread
remembering its own name.
You said what I thought
you might say.
One of those pauses.
A reset.
A little room.
The storm passing over
without me acting like a meteorologist.
I think I did okay.
Didn't knock. (too much)
Didn't pull. (too hard)
I sat there
with the bare thread,
the bare page,
the rude little phone
refusing to become a telescope,
and I tried to let quiet
be quiet.
Which, frankly,
should count as cardio.
And then it held.
Not because I chased it down.
It held
because maybe some things
are allowed to breathe,
and stop for a minute,
without dying.
So now:
back on track.
Careful phrase.
Dangerous phrase.
The kind of phrase
that knows I will absolutely
try to make too much of it.
But Thursday is sitting there
with a boarding pass
and a grin.
Canadian Grand Prix.
Montreal.
Engines.
Friends.
Noise.
A bucket list item
for both of us,
which feels ridiculous
and perfect
because apparently
the universe looked at us
coming out of a cooldown
and said:
Fine.
Go stand near something loud
that only works
because everybody respects
the limits of the track.
There's a lesson in there,
probably.
No forcing the corner.
No proving the point after the safety car.
No trying to win the whole race on the first lap back.
Just us,
green flag enough,
walking toward the roar
with the thread back in hand.
And the track,
finally—
loud,
real,
right in front of us.

Thread Bare

Sat, 16 May 2026 11:27:02 -0500

Tuesday had jokes.
Bill Burr loud enough
to make the whole room
feel less guilty
for being ridiculous.
And there we were again:
Us.
Capital U.
Easy laugh.
Same voltage.
Like the old rhythm
had only stepped out for a smoke
and was finally back at the table.
Then you stayed.
The whole... fucking... night.
Which, for the record,
is not how a man
with a history of over-reading things
is supposed to receive information.
Wednesday opened its hand too,
and I took the whole thing.
Morning,
afternoon,
that soft extra time
that makes a person stupid
in the most defensible way.
But—
By game time,
the clock had teeth.
Braves/Sox waiting.
Seats cooling.
You left to get ready,
and I tried to trust
the version of time
that works for normal people.
Unfortunately, (fortunately?)
we're not normal people.
We're two calendars
in a trench coat
_pretending_ to be a plan.
So I did the math
nobody wants to do…
not while hope is still putting on makeup.
I gave the tickets away. (fuck. me.)
Deebo got Braves/Sox.
Doug got plausible deniability.
Irby's got another footnote.
And us?
We got whatever the hell
happened next.
I won't write the fight.
Not here.
Not because it didn't matter,
but because it matters too much
to flatten into evidence.
I know my side.
You know yours.
The room knows
where the glass almost cracked.
Now it's Saturday.
I was supposed to be in the air right now—
PV bound,
chasing that salt and reset.
I pushed the flight to tomorrow.
Bought myself an extra twenty-four hours
to just sit in the quiet
and let the dust actually settle.
Because packing this kind of silence into a carry-on?
That'd ruin a perfectly good beach.
And the thread is bare.
No dots.
No mercy emoji.
No accidental reel
pretending not to be a hand
on the doorknob.
Just three days
of the phone being a phone
which is rude, honestly.
A device with that many cameras
should be able to show me
what not to think.
The page is bare too.
Same white box.
Same stupid cursor.
Same old me
trying not to turn silence
into a courtroom.
I keep reaching
for the joke first,
because the joke knows how to enter a room
without asking for too much.
But underneath it:
I miss Tuesday.
I miss Wednesday
before the clock got sharp.
I miss the version of us
that knew how to sit close
without bracing for weather.
And yes,
I know.
Three-day cooldown.
I don't have to enjoy
being a manila folder
marked Pending.
So I won't knock.
I won't pull the thread
just to prove it still reaches.
I won't make my weather
your assignment.
I'll sit here instead,
with the bare thread,
the bare page,
the little fibers catching light wrong,
and try to remember:
worn thin is not the same as gone.
Quiet is not always goodbye.
And a thread this stubborn
must still know
how to hold.

Cooldown on Bougyman's Ramblings

Back on (the) Track

Thread Bare