I am in love with tomorrow
The one where I swim oceans,
Write at a bistro in Paris,
Drown my sorrows in Bombay rains.

I am a broken oracle for myself.
My prophecies are all dreams in which I become lost.
My inner compass fails me as I unnaturally fall into lines too rigid to be true,
before dissipating into a fog that leaves me dazed.
When I arise I find my moments are repeating as though any future day is left perpetually pending.
All I now know is that my tomorrow is leaving itself unknown,
anonymous under a cloak of frailty.

silverstains on my ring finger
books annotated, written, and read by two
Gertrude Aletheia Juneau
board games and puzzles in dim light
small fists tugging the hem of your big shirt
minds thinking alike, lips speaking kind
Good morning, I love you, Good night

The future worries me:
all of the unknown possibilities.
Indecision overcomes my mind,
at the time I most need it precise.

I even cried tonight,
looking at a list of courses:
mystifying options that I may not have
if I can’t write the essay right
or get the shiniest recommendations.

So I am worrisome,
for the next month and year.

I am worrisome because I want nothing more
than to be part of that place,
and to belong among those people.

hey,
future me.
it's july seventh.
and this year has
definetly been one
for the books.

im lucky enough
to still have the friends
i do
because everybody
started turning their backs
on eachother.
and that made me very
anxious
to lose someone
i love.

america might be slowly
dying a painful death.
the climate too.
australia is
or was
trying to follow in
america's footsteps.
women are slowly
losing
their rights.
a possible war.

it's not the greatest time
to be alive.
but it could be worse,
and honestly,
i think that's the only way
im getting through it.
because,
i have it good.
some people don't have
what i do.
and it makes me feel
horrible
when i realise
im taking it all for granted.

i hope the air is safer
a few years from now.
i hope america has
a better life.
i hope women have
their rights.
i hope the earth
isn't suffering so bad
from the climate crisis.

but i can only hope.
and draft this text.

There may be winners amongst losers,
there may be losers amongst winners,
for no one knows what future holds.

You may be fighting death like crazy,
or scream: Please, turn me into dust!!!
What’s better for you - you won’t know.

But do not worry - there is justice
for the unfairness of this world.
For you won't die if you are born.

Old woman,
you shuffle past the bus stop,
coat dragging like the years you’ve worn,
eyes clouded,
face soft like pages turned a thousand times
and almost forgotten.

You walk like you’ve been walking
your whole life,
through the noise,
through the quiet,
through the people who left
and the ones who never came.

And me?

I just sit here.
Watching.
Like a ghost who hasn’t even died yet.

Because I don’t think I’ll make it there.
To where you are.
To where your bones ache but
your breath still rises.
To where your silence means survival.

I don’t think I’ll ever grow old.
Not like you.
Not like anyone.

They say ”you’re young, you’ve got time,”
but time feels like a hallway I can’t find the end of.
Like a clock with no hands,
ticking in a room no one else hears.

My days are…
blurry.

Tight in the chest.
Heavy in the head.
Like I’m dragging a life behind me
that I never asked for.
Like I’m underwater
but smiling at everyone above the surface
so they won’t ask
if I’m drowning.

Old woman,
how did you do it?
How did you live long enough
to forget some of the pain?
To bury people,
and still get up to buy bread
and feed birds
and water plants that will outlive you?

I can’t even imagine next week.
Let alone
next decade.
Let alone
wrinkles and soft sweaters
and stories that begin with
”When I was your age..”

I’m scared that I won’t get that far.
And part of me doesn’t care.

Is that awful?

Some days I hope I disappear quietly.
Without the drama.
Without the note.
Just.. a light going out
that no one noticed was flickering.

But you,
you’re still here.
And I don’t know if that’s strength
or just what happens
when you forget how to quit.

Old woman,
you’re not my grandmother.
You’re not anyone I know.
But watching you
makes me ache
for a future I don’t believe belongs to me.

I don’t want pity.
I don’t want advice.
I want to feel something that tells me
I might still be becoming
instead of slowly unraveling.

So I sit here.
And I watch you.
And for a moment,
just a moment
I imagine
that maybe
somehow
I’ll last long enough
to forget how much this hurts.

That maybe one day,
someone will watch me,
and wonder how I made it.