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It Will Be Better Tomorrow

By Kiley Hudson

It will be better tomorrow, i promise. it'll be better tomorrow.

you found yourself writing with your pointer finger

against the steamed glass.

water droplets forming then falling,

condensation blanketing your forged word.

it was just you, only you in that shower,

but you swore a phantom accompanied you.

and its presence, along with the steady pressure of the heated water,

made you feel vulnerable and you felt yourself folding.

is it sane feeling judged by people no longer here?

is it sane to feel a hint of shame because,

for some reason, you feel they're warning you

to take advantage of what you've got,

to live what they did or could not?

but what did it matter?

what does it matter in the end?

"what does it all matter?" continual repetition.

catching the warm rain in cupped hands,

you smiled.

well, in your lonesome state,

having ghosts by your side

was better than solitude.

oh, tiny droplets,

i wish i could preserve your beauty

frame by frame.

i wonder how much i've sipped,

and how much i've let down the drain.