Tomorrow

 

Tomorrow I won’t visit

your piles

of white dust; though twisting guilt

will tell me I must, and I won’t

bring roses

or lilies to lay in the dust

at the closing hours

of a wet, spring day

you will spend,

like this one,

by my side, 

rushing and weaving

from the corners of my mind to encompass

my every breath, gouging and pulling at the

very depths of my power to forget

you, and I

a child again

will let you find me wherever I am.

And know one will know

you walk with me tomorrow,

heavy on my aching back,

an invisible,

curling, cloak of black tied chokingly tight.

Know one will know

how you’ll haunt me for nights, now

and the few days that lie ahead,

no one

will hear the words you once said,

but me, behind my time-warp smile,

every step ‘til you’re gone,

a tiny mile,

to conquer 

as I feel you stronger, 

more heavily, 

for a little while.