Evan Nolasco
“Clean your room,” your voice strains,
But I seem to remain in place.
“I’ll do it tomorrow,” I quickly reply,
Barely looking you in the face.
Dust gathers softly on moments we share,
Like the small emotions that fill the air.
Your voice remains in the doorway, patient and warm,
But my body stays lukewarm.
“I’ll do it tomorrow,” I say with a shrug,
Like time is a promise I own,
Like days line up endlessly, waiting for me,
Like I’ll never be here alone.
But tomorrow keeps slipping; it never arrives.
It hides in the next “not today,”
In laughter I rushed, in talks I delayed,
All because I was afraid.
Your footsteps grew lighter outside of my door,
You’re knocking not quite as loud,
The house is somehow bigger, the silence sharper,
The air felt strangely proud.
I thought there’d be time for the things I ignored,
For the words I never let through,
For sitting beside you without looking down,
For saying I listened to you.
Now my room is clean, but it doesn’t feel right,
No voice calling out from the hall,
No gentle reminder, no second request,
Just quiet that swallows it all.
“I’ll do it tomorrow,” still lingers inside,
A sentence I can’t undo,
Because somewhere between all my borrowed tomorrows,
I ran out of time with you.
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