Dillman's "Tomorrow" follows a speaker who moves from a numb, exhausted state toward a fragile hope. At the start, living and dying both seem to demand courage, and the speaker admits to fearing life almost as much as death. Days become a march. Breathing turns into a chore, and the mind is crowded with worries about every tomorrow. The phrase "muscle memory" captures that robotic feeling of going through the motions while dreading the next day.
Then the poem shifts. The speaker credits the people around them for keeping them here, and wonders whether it was others, their own thoughts, or even a song that pulled them out of fear. The short, spaced-out lines ("Was it them / Or was it me") feel like real uncertainty. By the end, the mood is quiet and tentative but warm. Tomorrow stops being a threat and becomes a promise of air, connection, and a bond with oneself, and that promise keeps the speaker grounded in today.