Here and now

You will wake up, Sunday morning.

You'll stretch, get the life back into your legs so they'll pay attention to you. You might go to the shower first or drink something first, but at some point, you'll click on the computer.

And you'll get this message in a bottle, sent in the wee hours of last night, while you slept peacefully. I am typing this in your past, my now, with the desklight softly buzzing, and my fingers clicking on the keys.

You are there, and I am here. There might be space between us, but really, there isn't. Really.

I am there, and you are here.

I am writing this now, you'll read it then. There might be time between us, too. But really there isn't.

Really.

You are here now, and I am there, then.

Here and now, we exist, together. There and then, we'll exist, too.


Really.


And that makes me smile.