I imagine a future, and it is not mine.
I could make it mine, perhaps,
if I could simply force myself to like coffee.
 
It would be mine then, surely.
This future of early mornings and non-bitter sips.
Of sunrise and refreshment. Of purpose.
 
I imagine a future with purpose, and it is not mine.
It belongs to some abstract version of me,
perfect in porcelain and burned with passion.
 
I have written them a letter asking how to become.
I paint my fingernails and hope it is the glaze that will finally inspire me.
I am waiting; I have left myself on read.
 
Tomorrow, people will celebrate my latest lap around the sun.
New expectations made pretty with paper and bows will be bestowed upon me.
I will take them, and fail them in the same breath.
 
I imagine a future, and it is full of tomorrows.
It is dawns I will sleep through. It is clay left unmoulded.
It is the search for home in a parallel I will never see myself cross.
 
I do not know if tomorrow belongs to me.
I do not know if I want it to.