Tomorrow the cherry trees die (their roots were my heart),
And tomorrow I'll drown in the hangover of, "What's your name again?"
And sick nostalgia when I roll past your house
(Oh, how it infects my head without a syringe).
A nausea as I wave to strangers and they ask
Why the back of my hand is smeared with mascara,
And I'll wonder why I even bother at all.
But these thoughts dissolve into dust now,
Because tomorrow hasn't started (thank-you-god).
And maybe someday I'll feel as beautiful as you,
But for now we'll just watch the last star of happiness set from my porch,
Laughing because we're high off of the moment,
And we won’t say a thing about tomorrow.