When You're Not Here Tomorrow

I'LL MARVEL AT HOW WE WERE BLIND

When you're not here tomorrow,

I'll think about the night before.

You were all smiles and laughs.

"What changed?" I'll implore.

"Why did you decide to go?

What—oh, pray tell—changed your mind?"

But then the little things will pile up, and

I'll marvel at how we were blind.

When you're not here tomorrow,

I'll reflect on every miniscule thing:

Dark eyes, flinching lips, long sleeves,

and every Tuesday, the gifts our neighbor would bring.

Slowly, my sorrow will curdle toward anger.

My molars I will grind,

yelling the truth for all to hear, and

I'll marvel at how we were blind.