Tasting Tomorrow

Night hums like a live wire in the dark,
A clock with glowing teeth that loves to bark.
You pace the floor, a tight and circling kite,
Strung to tomorrow by the nerves of night.

Your phone is face‑down, still it seems to shine,
A buried star beneath a fragile line.
You count your breaths like soldiers in a row,
But each one asks the same thing: “Will it show?”

The ceiling turns to paper, thin and white,
You write your what‑ifs on its bleached-out light.
Each thought a match you shouldn’t dare to strike,
Each hope a hill you climb and climb alike.

You close your eyes—the mind refuses rest,
It plays the trailer, never shows the rest.
You see the email, hear the distant ring,
You feel the yes before you feel the sting.

In dreams it’s easy: doors swing wide and fast,
Your name in headlines, shadows of the past.
You shake the hands you haven’t met just yet,
You taste the future, ripe with risk and debt.

But morning cuts the film and snaps the reel,
You wake with heartbeats louder than you feel.
The sun is just a witness at the blinds,
Watching you wrestle silence for the signs.

Coffee becomes a ritual of delay,
A bitter hymn to pass the waiting day.
You check the inbox, nothing changes still,
The world moves on, indifferent to your will.

Each minute’s now a needle in the air,
You thread your thoughts through loops of “Do they care?”
You walk in loops from window back to chair,
A tide that cannot quite forget the shore it wears.

Afternoon drifts in on cotton feet,
The city mumbles, distant, incomplete.
You lift your screen, refresh the same old page,
A moth against the window of its cage.

By evening hope has learned a quieter tone,
No less intense, just sitting closer to the bone.
You say, “Tomorrow,” like a practiced charm,
And tuck the restless lightning in your arm.

But night returns, its wire never snapped,
You’re back inside the circle you’ve mapped.
Half in the world and half in what might be,
Wide awake, waiting, on the edge of what you’ll see.

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