When you're not here tomorrow,
the terracotta sun will stubbornly rise
over our weary rooftop,
rays scraping the plot where you lie.
I hope you miss the sunshine,
and the feel of summer in the air.
I know I will. Nothing will be the same
when you are no longer here.
When you're not here tomorrow,
the flower shop will close.
All the roses and daffodils and tulips will wilt
because from eternal slumber you didn't rose.
But their perfume—smooth and sweet—
will still permeate my frizzy hair.
Petals will drop lazily on the floor, unswept,
when you are no longer here.
YOU ARE READING
When You're Not Here Tomorrow
PoetryAn homage to all those left behind by those taken too soon.
