The wind will leave like feet tomorrow.

In this house I’ll forget how to treat tomorrow.

My dinner is rain in slow motion.

Maybe I’ll forget how to eat tomorrow.

It’s time I lean my back against the wall:

Tell him I don’t want to meet tomorrow.

Instead, I snub my words with mouthfuls

as the main course shows me to cheat tomorrow.

His hand reaches for my leg under the table.

My eyes will be a bit more discrete tomorrow.

I can’t remember when this game was safe

and smiles didn’t lead to sexual heat tomorrow.

My voice finally echoes against the hallway.

The sound vibrating to the beat- tomorrow.

Ravel- just be careful about your new song.

Some boys just want you in their backseat tomorrow.