trying to sort out the hundreds of dozen things I wanted to say,
but won't, at least tomorrow.
I'm waking up here, and through the window the sun shines through;
I came to a clearing to find out if it was really you,
but I won't know until tomorrow.
The borderline exists there, but it's several miles away,
will there ever be such a breathless day?
no, you won't be breathing so much tomorrow.
This racing heart begs me to look South,
but my eyes are adverted and it's best to close my mouth,
until maybe tomorrow.
My secrets speak before they are thought,
and I'm twisting my wrists so I'll never get caught,
but you won't read about it tomorrow.
The borderline is a haze in the dirty rain,
and i've bought my tickets for the slow train,
so we can sleep on it, tomorrow.
I wait, how I always wait, but will not fail to thrive,
if the rose bush taught me one thing, it's how to survive;
excuse my thorns, they're only until tomorrow.
And I've had it with this horrific brake,
and whatever's left is yours to take,
so you won't find me braking tomorrow.
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