Be there tomorrow
a poem
I always forget to breathe right after I make myself remember, like using my phone to check the time. Ineffective. Distracted. So I track the beat of my heart: chambers and ventricles, veins and twines, wringing its necks for blood, rattling against my ribs. Unmistakable. Four signs.
“You cannot force Autumn,” heavy branches whisper in my dreams, and I forget it’s a nightmare. So I try to talk back in lyrics, while realigning my cat eye, like I’m a mastermind. “This time, they won’t know,” I smudge it slowly, cold butter, pumping my fist in the recycled air, because I only hit snooze once this morning, and I should throw a party, maybe, stretch this moment to adorn my odds.
“It took too much,” is how I want to circle every reason listing why I won’t try again. Boredom is a rug of comfort, routine stitched to never fill my expectations. “They must know something,” is what I sigh while scrolling through Instagram, in secret, after hearting three posts about choosing positivity.
She was a stranger in the shop window. I use eight words to rewrite the end of April because if I claim first rights, I could pre-program the destination. Crack journey’s myths: they look like crop circles from above. I would lick the flames, take a disposable picture, and exit before sequences scream like Mia Goth.
At 3 am, I look up cheap plane tickets to anywhere cold, wet, and dread. Right after I remember someone like me, hair stirring wind, skeleton undone after the credits rolled, returning from a late-night show. So I write a poem about living off-script. And wondering what if...always.
I wrap fear in foil, and leave it in the fridge, knowing it will be there tomorrow.
Wager, I’ll fly above its nails peeling ink.
I smiled at 'boredom is a rug of comfort'. That feels familiar. I love the rhythm of this one... beautiful.
Ir is amazing how easy it is to forget to breathe when we need it most. Please force autumn just a bit sooner. Lovely words. Lovely pictures they create.