Back to work,
        routine,
        pretending—

        this city isn’t smaller now just because you’re in it.

No more miles,
        time zones,
        no flights in the way—

        just meetings, schedules, circumstance.

I could *walk* to you faster
     than I could type this,

     but today isn’t built for impulse.

So we play the part.

Emails,
       calls,
       deadlines,

       the world moving as if it doesn’t know we have better places to be.

But tonight—
    tonight the script flips.

Tonight, (finally)
     we trade the mundane for…

     whatever *this* is…
     whatever we make it.

And for that,
    even a Monday is worth surviving.