Indecision ticking away

I know. Tomorrow. The curtains white already faded will hang in battered tatters. The pressed leaves in my yellowed journal will crumble into veined ash. The lines are going to be cut down and the dead ends will invert upside down. 

And I know. Tomorrow. You might not be here anymore, near or far. Our hearts might erode from the countless juxtaposition they refused to adopt. This house might be a bony remnant of broken bricks, and our skeletons might be wreaths of blooming buds.

Maybe. Tomorrow. There won’t be a today. The calendars no one bothers using anymore will spontaneously burst into combusted wind, and the ticking days will fail to mark attendance on anything. 

And maybe. Tomorrow. I will be devising a new list of things to look for in the moments hurtling my way. The hourglass could spin it all out in a single instant and deliver all the sifted deserts inside my palm. 

All in a single flash of another morrow.
All in the clutches of an indecipherable mayhap.

All these tomorrows we have and don’t have.
Sit on your corroded desk, write the letters you will never send.
And wait for them to never come.