In eight hours
   it becomes “today,”
   which is hilarious,

   because my body still thinks it’s yesterday.

But the itinerary is already awake.

Atlanta again—
        Irby’s,
        the office,
        Tropicalia,
        that familiar humidity

        that makes you pay for breath in cash.

And yes—
        Mari.

I miss her
  in the quiet places,
  the in-between minutes,

  the gaps where a voice should live.

I’m not sure we’ll see each other tomorrow.

I’ve got condos to look at,
     and she’s probably already booked
     by a life that doesn’t consult my calendar.

That’s fine.

(That’s me practicing “fine.”)

Still—
       if Monday comes with a Steelers window,
       if she wants to slide in for a quarter or two,

       I’ll be ready with my cleanest response: “Yes.”

Tomorrow is a different kind of Sunday:
                           less church,
                        more checklist.

I start hunting Buckhead like it’s a myth—

I’ll walk through bright kitchens,
        pretend I’m not imagining
          her half-laughing at me
        for caring about cabinets.

Then I’ll end the day
     where I always end the day
     when I’m trying to make time behave:

Irby’s,
       a stool that remembers my weight,
       a screen that doesn’t ask questions,
       and that low hum that makes missing feel

       slightly less sharp.

And after—
    Sylvan.

Not because it’s fancy.

Because it knows my name.

Because it’s where hope can sit down
             without being stared at.

So yeah.
Sunday Funday.

Not the loud kind.
Not the reckless kind.

The kind where I show up,
    do the real-world things,
    and still leave a little room
    for the best surprise:

    Mari,
         appearing in the doorway
         like it was never a question.

Either way—
Atlanta’s back on the horizon.

And so am I.