Tomorrow crouches at the foot of the bed,
a sealed envelope breathing through its glue.
I do not open it.
I let it watch me sleep.
The night has washed my thoughts
to a thin, metallic quiet.
Even the clock tiptoes,
its hands careful not to bruise the dark.
Morning will ask questions
I have not rehearsed for-
it always does-
bright as a white room,
smelling of answers.
I dread the nights inspection,
the way it lifts the sheet
from every unfinished thing,
every word I swallowed
to keep the day polite.
Today, at least, still belongs to shadow:
a pocket where fear can fold itself small,
where hope is not yet demanded
like exact change.
Tomorrow waits, patient and exacting,
pushing its mirrors.
I turn my face to the wall
and practice being stone,
heavy with all the things
that have not yet happened.