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Your dead grey eyes have turned to stone many months ago, but I’m still trying to retrieve a part of you long lost. Maybe I see bits of myself reflected in you, as fragments of light slowly withering. And I’ll still be here asking about your day and waiting for the same answer even after you don’t bother to know about mine. We’re on repeat. Recycled words, recycled lines, recycled memories.

I know your demons are bigger than mine. You told me how they torture you and you learned to carry guns at night because you were afraid of something you couldn’t escape. Mine were only memories barely close enough breathe against my skin while yours left scars along your veins.

You’re running in circles, worn-out cycles, wearing a porcelain heart along your sleeve and I’d hate to see it shatter again.

I called you yesterday and your voice sounds different every time. I’m slowly forgetting. You’re slowly drifting, detaching your narrow bones from the walls that kept you alive, and I ask you to stay just one more day.

A year ago, you told me to never change. But last autumn, you got swept away with the wind and how could you expect me not to?

I changed the day you left. The day I reached out to you after many moons and discovered not you, but corpses. I didn’t understand how someone could die so young, but still be here, how someone could live with skeletons and shattered remains.

Yesterday is gone, tomorrow will become another yesterday, and she’s sewing together your wounds.

Tomorrow, you’ll tell me that the night is suffocating you and you’ll be juggling days between getting drunk and staying awake until dawn, telling her things you’ll soon forget.

Tomorrow, she will leave and take threads of you with her.


I still see you in my dreams sometimes. I see charcoal seas, how they were the color of your eyes, ever-changing. My disillusioned heartbeat tells me to erase the part of you that lived only in past-tense. Some days I ask myself questions of “what-if” as if I could change our tomorrows.

Constellations are connecting above my head, reaching for miles, and wherever you are, the stars will catch up to you.

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4 thoughts on “Tomorrow

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