Woke to your line:
    “Can’t wait to see you today.”

There might be better poems,
      but none I’d rather read before coffee.

Last night was Irby’s with Coal,
        Thursday night anything,
  laughter louder than the game.

Back to Skyhouse,
     an epic nap wearing evening’s clothes—

     the kind of quiet that makes a room feel held.

Somewhere near four,
      you slipped out with him,
      and the bed—already half a promise—

      remembered it was half a bed.
     (It gave up a little more.
      So did I. In a good way.)

Today is my last Friday
      of this September in Atlanta,
      which sounds heavier than it feels,
      because your text made it light…

      the day knows where it’s going.

Tonight we’ll test the couch,
        see if it can carry us
        where the bed cannot,
        see if a second-best surface
        can be a first place to land.

Half a bed,
     whole night—

I’ve learned the math by now:
     it isn’t furniture that holds us,
     it’s the way our breath edits the air.

So I’ll straighten the pillows,
   forgive the bolts,
   leave a corner for Coal,
   and keep one simple thought
   folded at the edge of everything:

   “Can’t wait to see you, too.”