Tomorrows
by Kenny Wilson
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: None.
Description: A sort of story.
Swearwords: None.
Description: A sort of story.
‘There is someone over there wanting to score, some horse and meth.’
I look up, it was Meg, he was ok as a middle and not much else. Short, stupid and no dress sense. On the other hand, he was loyal.
‘Send them over, oh and tell them to buy me a drink before they get here.’
Five minutes later I hear a voice, ‘Are you the guy who can sort me out?’
A so so familiar voice from a faraway place.
You won’t see me cry,
as you move on.
But the tears will drown my broken here,
and wash away my tomorrows.
You leave to my silence.
You leave for your ‘same but different’ tomorrows.
Oh how I miss those eyes.
How I miss that smile.
How I miss you.
And my heart still leapt, after all those years, those so many years.
I look up to see. Yes it is you, well a sort of, but gaunt eyes, straggly hair, unwashed rags for clothes. No style. A sort of you. A ‘same but different’ sort of you.
‘Oh it’s you,’ she slurs, ‘that’s cool, maybe a better deal then? Perhaps I can pay with ‘extras’?’
A tomorrow too far.
A place too wild.
Not for me as I watched you leave,
through a faraway door.
Too many tears,
Just too many tears.
‘Standard price for everyone,’ I say, with a smile. ‘It’s heavy duty gear, though.’
A revenge was mine. Well, sort of.
Those times,
all those dreams of better places,
better times,
come to this.
I’ m one and so are you.
You made me, I made you.
I look up, it was Meg, he was ok as a middle and not much else. Short, stupid and no dress sense. On the other hand, he was loyal.
‘Send them over, oh and tell them to buy me a drink before they get here.’
Five minutes later I hear a voice, ‘Are you the guy who can sort me out?’
A so so familiar voice from a faraway place.
You won’t see me cry,
as you move on.
But the tears will drown my broken here,
and wash away my tomorrows.
You leave to my silence.
You leave for your ‘same but different’ tomorrows.
Oh how I miss those eyes.
How I miss that smile.
How I miss you.
And my heart still leapt, after all those years, those so many years.
I look up to see. Yes it is you, well a sort of, but gaunt eyes, straggly hair, unwashed rags for clothes. No style. A sort of you. A ‘same but different’ sort of you.
‘Oh it’s you,’ she slurs, ‘that’s cool, maybe a better deal then? Perhaps I can pay with ‘extras’?’
A tomorrow too far.
A place too wild.
Not for me as I watched you leave,
through a faraway door.
Too many tears,
Just too many tears.
‘Standard price for everyone,’ I say, with a smile. ‘It’s heavy duty gear, though.’
A revenge was mine. Well, sort of.
Those times,
all those dreams of better places,
better times,
come to this.
I’ m one and so are you.
You made me, I made you.
About the Author
Kenny Wilson was born and raised in Edinburgh’s Southside. Now in his sixtieth year, he describes himself as a writer, a dreamer and lucky.