I await the finality of yesterday
when I forget the promise of today,
like when the most anticipated birthday gift
is opened and exposed to reality's light.
Its end comes when the bristles touch my teeth,
with the look into the mirror's eyes
echoing back
the day's end.
Yesterday I had imagined everything would go as planned,
complete with a neat beginning and end,
and its own predictable yet dramatic plot;
but today's present lacked the vivid details and texture
imagined, offered little surprise or suspense, was more like
junkmail, waiting there,
addressed to me, but of little interest.
The withering promise of today
closes the curtain on yesterday
while it wraps another present of
hopeful tomorrows,
searching for its story.