And when that day comes,

We’ll know we want more than

Comfort on cold nights,

Or a steady hand

To pull the curtains open just enough

For the sun’s rays to pulse on our faces.

 

It won’t be tomorrow –

The only day that mocks us

Like a language we’ll never speak.

It’s a 1940s detective film –

With our forgotten fathers waiting

Under the fog and stars.

 

And yet, we hope to find them.

Just to reach the end

And watch the credits roll.

Before we wake up,

Reaching for the clock under

The gray and humid air.

 

The sound of silence buzzes,

Rattling the dust from the lampshades

That were stained with our mistakes.

The drips from the rusted faucet

Echo as they hit the drain

And beat like the drumming of the ocean

 

With tides ready to sweep us away

Under a kaleidoscope of moments

We could never touch before.

But that green light still flickers 

Ghosts on the walls, haunting us

Like the flames we singed our fingers on.