Tomorrow's Mist

Tomorrow's mist
is waiting at the window.

It has no face,
but it knows my name.

It crawls through the morning
like a quiet ghost,
hiding the road,
hiding the trees,
hiding what comes next.

I reach for it,

and my hand comes back cold.

Somewhere inside the mist,
tomorrow is breathing.

I can hear it whisper:

“Come closer.”

Then I notice the footprints
outside my door.

They begin in the mist
and end at my window.

No footprints are leading away.

I close the curtains,
but the mist slips through the cracks.
It fills the room slowly,
and from somewhere behind me
comes the sound of breathing.

I turn around.

Nothing.

Then a voice whispers from the window,

“I told you
I would come tomorrow.”

And suddenly,
tomorrow is here.