Tomorrow, I will sing a song,
Tie every note,
and sing as if it were the epitome of beauty,
Tomorrow, I will sing a song,
Full of he said, she said,
Full of me wanting to believe,
in my so-called reality,
Tomorrow,
During noon,
the wind's grasp upon me will be cold,
like the nostalgia I have for last year,
Cold,
like how I've been imagining their words,
if they were spoken to my face,
rather than read through text,
Tomorrow,
Predictably,
I will sing the saddest song,
A song that reeks of blue,
and looks like a mixed emotion,
sounds like a cliche,
I know,
The lyrics will be about distance,
how they kidnapped my favorite person away from me,
How the moon still feels lonely,
even when the sun comes up,
and glances at the moon for a second,
because though the great big star rises,
the moon is still alone,
people sleep and don't pay attention to the beautiful blank moon,
but when the sun comes up,
everyone's out and about,
The moon is the definition of solitude,
a poet once explained how my soul is not satisfied,
and it is true,
I have cursed at the stars that do not comfort the moon,
for the moon seeks comfort,
not neglect,
I can hear the moon speak to itself,
saying,
I might've loved the sun,
I might've not,
oh, but how I loved the sun,
yesterday,
let me go back to yesterday,
So the moon can spend its last night under the bright stars,
dancing by herself,
So the gentle whisper of the wind will feel like a soft touch,
rather than a punch in the stomach,
Yesterday,
Let me go back to yesterday,
To when the moon speaks her last fluttery words of her joy, the sun,
Yesterday,
To when I wrote my last poem,
With the cold hands I bared,
when I carved the name of the sun onto an ice cube that could not melt into my aching pores,
yesterday,
it feels like today,
Let me prepare for tomorrow's song,
For the moon,
Until then,
I'll stay here in today.