Tomorrow

I want to love you until you hate me, I said.

Self-fulfilled prophecies drip from the tips of bloody fingers. 

I wrote her a letter.  And I mean, wrote it with my bare hands.  Pen, paper and a stamp.  And I questioned my own sanity.

I found her sitting on the curb in front of a convenience store.  Head, between her legs.  Softly, I asked her what she needed. 

Change, she replied. 
And you, she added.

She used to talk about her father in Jesus like terms.  I could not relate.

Well, honey, let's do it.  Let's talk about tomorrow.  And we debated over its existence. 

I walked two miles to the post office.  Just to mail her that letter.  I believed it would get there much faster as opposed to leaving it in my own mailbox.

I questioned my logic.

Tomorrow is an awkward subject.  On one hand, it does not exist.  On another, it's an illusion when it gets here.  We are always chasing tomorrow even when it's today. 

She thinks I think too much.

I wish you would hate me, I said.  So, I sought uncommon ground.  Like God.  Politics.  Babies.  Anything we disagreed on.

And it worked.

Sure, I came to regret my own act of sabotage.  Who wouldn't?  Look at her.  She's right there.  She's everywhere. 

My fingers are bleeding.  And there's a lump in my throat. 

And I couldn't be more happy.

She got my letter.  Just in time.

The next day, in fact.

Let's call it tomorrow.


And when they say, she's in a better place, I sure as hell believe it. And when I blame myself, I pray to God for a distraction.  And when someone dares to say angels, heaven, God; that none of them exist, I know better. 

And when tomorrow comes up, I always smile.