6:04 a.m.—
          you pinged the morning
          like a cork finding its ceiling.

Birthday partying again,
         and you—on video—

         chugging champagne.
         (twice.)

I watched it like evidence
  Case File: “Joy v Sleep”
  (a case I refuse to close)

     Exhibit A: your laugh.
     Exhibit B: your audacity.
     Exhibit C: the way joy looks
                when it stops apologizing.

I’m glad you’re having a blast—
    not the “I’ll be good” kind,
           the full-volume kind

           that leaves glitter on your voice.

And then—
    a slip,
    a little unguarded truth
    tucked between the bubbles:

    you wanted to hang out with me, too.

That did what it does—
     put a stupid grin on my face
     and make the day feel lighter

     without changing a single plan.

So I kept mine.

MLK Memorial this morning—
    my annual walk back into intention,
    into quiet,
    into the part of Atlanta

    that asks you to mean what you say.

Meanwhile you’re sleeping it off,
          recharging for round two,
          I’m rooting for you

          and I'm logging it…
          like a man assigned to joy.

Tomorrow the weekend releases you,
         and I can almost hear the week exhale.

I won’t jinx it.
I’ll just set the table.

Tonight—
        Championship football on the screen,
        Indiana v Miami, (one undefeated, one hungry)
        me at Irby’s,
        holding a seat for two outcomes:

        the one where you show up,
        champagne still in your smile,
        eyes bright,
        laughing like the world can’t catch you—

        and… the one where we do our thing:
        cheer together apart,
        threaded by texts and timing
        and that familiar gravity.

Either way,
       the proof is already in:

       you’re out there living,
       I’m down here smiling,
       and somewhere between us
       the thread keeps working—

       champagne proof.