Shift

A realization sunk in like a needle:
tomorrow’s self will be different from today’s,
and may not deserve my trust.
It would be nice to talk to him,
to ask him of what is needed of me,
to tell him what is needed of him.
But the rotating door partitioning us
ticks with the seconds, and its brass walls are
soundproof. If I leave a note thin enough to
slip under the door, will he one day find it?