I hope I get to see your sunrise and smell the innocence of birds who are still not scared of flying in the open sky. Today, Aunty Jane lost her love in war and the laughters of yesterday have become a today ragged with sombre.
She crumples on Mama's wooden floor like a spread of dead flowers. Saggy skin have come upon her in the day of her vibrance like the shrieks of the night.
Memories relay me to the moments forevers were sworn. She, like the bride of whiteness and he, like the groom of darkness. Both smiling at the now they shared and the vows to be said.
But none ever sent you an invitation, they had hoped you'd invite yourself, strengthening the bond they shared everyday you replicated yourself by the death of today.
Were you so angry that they forgot you? That everyone forgets you as soon as you're born in today - today receiving all the attention.
But they did look to you, counting up to the days their undying love would herald the scream of a bundle forged in purity and love.
You got too jealous, dear tommorow. You had the stage set for the drums of the damaged and she whirls to your eclectic strings, writhing in wishes unfulfilled and promises unsaid.
You hid well in the jags of piercing screams, foetid blood, punctured heads, splintered spines, severed bones and skewered intestines where you embezzled a life intertwined with another.
You could have permitted her to share the tidings of the form emerging within her; a life to be birthed within your glorious rays.
Dear tommorow, your snuffed the candles of her joy and you plunged her into a dark world - a world where she would remain stuck in today reliving the pain over and over again.
I still ramble with unbroken tether to the yoke of numberless moonlights ago. The twilight that yesterday brought to my life when Father found wings and went on a flight of evermore.
Dear tomorrow, I may not know what's written in your dairy for me or Aunty Jane but I hope faith finds us leaning in helplessness.
In our nothingness and surreal end, teach us to count the days in restitution - to do all that's to be done, say all there is to say and love what exists to be loved.
And when you cook your stories in the pot of time, add the condiments of beautiful memories to be tasted and the salt of satisfaction. Add chunks of laughters, bits of smiles, slices of peace and extra layers of love.
The tomorrow that hatches in today.