moderateclimates:

Tomorrow is a storm cloud;
it rustles, dark and ominous,
through the brittle trees of today.

You bit your tongue a little too hard—
the anticipation a little too much—
and mud ran down your neck in rivulets.

Let us delay tomorrow
by a day,
       and another,
                and another.

We’ll stay in today for another thousand years.

I will sew up your split ends,
and your split heart.
You will love the undulating wave,
and we’ll sail backwards through history
alone.