Isn’t it funny how we have the same moon, you and I? And Shakespeare too, and all the Buddhist monks, and all the soldiers who never came home, and all their children who lay awake gazing out their windows. Generations of teenagers stumbling home from dances with the beat still pumping in the soles of their shoes, moonlight glinting off their sweat or their tears or their bright and shining eyes. Writers staring with a bloodshot gaze up at the stars, praying for some divine intervention as their coffee goes stone cold. Lovers, in love under Her glow. Histories, multitudes. The desperate, the damned, the idyllic and the righteous. And somewhere in all of it, us. Now, in this time. Looking out from different windows, asleep in different beds. But she’s right there. She always has been. And although she’s been there for everyone, I can’t help but feel she’s looking at us two now. You, reading this. Me, writing it. Time and space mean nothing to her. And because of her, they mean nothing to me either. Look up at the moon, darling. Think of me.
I know I think of you.
