It was doomed from the start. Deadlines don't make for happy endings or happy beginnings, but we made do, the trickling sands tickling sans cesse and the seasons passing by and waving (good practice for tonight, I guess). You'll be gone tomorrow.
What season would you be, then? Midwinter spring, as Eliot said or a Fall chill fighting summer? One that makes us stay in bed with the rain at our doorstep. But seasons come back- You'll be gone tomorrow.
I'll pray to the god of small moments for the silences and your hands for the absentminded kisses -like that time we floated in a pool under a cave, surrounded by oranges and i thought: this is it- You'll be gone tomorrow.
I did know what was coming and I've tried to prepare even though I'd have to stifle tears when I made my way back home skirting glances from strangers, I did try. Will it be enough, I wonder. You'll be gone tomorrow,