The memory of tomorrow
I remember tomorrow, I know that sounds impossible.?
Like saying I have already cried?for a goodbye that hasn't happened yet.
But I can see the white rose
I can feel its stem between my fingers,?the thorn pressing into my skin,?and somehow, I know exactly when it will hurt.
I know there will be sunlight on the table.?I know someone will laugh in the next room,?I know I will stand there thinking,?Please, let me keep this moment.
And that is the strangest part?I haven't lived it,?but I miss it.
Maybe that's what love does.?Maybe loving something means?your heart starts remembering its ending?before your life has reached the
beginning.
Because I look at this rose?still closed, still becoming,?holding an entire bloom inside itself.
And maybe we are like that too:?carrying memories of places we've never been,?goodbyes we haven't said,?people we haven't met,?
futures we are already afraid to lose.
So yes, I remember tomorrow.
Not because I've been there
but because somewhere inside me,?I have already begun to love it.
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