An apology as hope. Hope, an excuse to postpone. Tomorrow, a promise—the fullest version of ourselves waiting.

Tomorrow, I act, realize, become. Tomorrow, I will be healthier, more tolerant, more authentic. Tomorrow, I will talk to the boss, call my parents. Tomorrow will be less distant, less crowded—no anxiety, no fear, no sadness. Tomorrow, that strange heaviness in my chest will ease.

Tomorrow, I will leap—insist, persist, heal, apologize. Tomorrow will be fairer, less naive, more serene, less lonely. Tomorrow, I will put an end to my weary ellipses. Tomorrow, the indentation in my story will prove my courage was tested.

Tomorrow, I will speak clearly and declare myself to him. Tomorrow, I will forgive myself and others. Tomorrow, I will draw and write.

Not today

Today is prose. Tomorrow, poetry.

Tomorrow—easier, gentler, sweeter. The future as an excuse not to be present. Tomorrow, the main course for every reason of absence.

Tomorrow, I will be proud of myself. Tomorrow, I may exercise while today slips through me, escapes me, empties me.

Not today.

Tomorrow, perhaps. But tomorrow may be too late… ❤

©️ Beatriz Esmer