How Late Is Too Late?
From twelve midnight to twilight,
I lie down on a blanket on the rooftop,
between a bottle of wine
and my father’s old typewriter.
I am growing too careful as I age,
so when you tell me that you love me,
I pretend I don’t feel the same.
I am unfolding. I sit at the edge of the rooftop,
surrounded by city lights and white noises.
Thirty-seven desperate missed calls.
I turn off my phone.
I’m thinking of explaining my pain
on all the ways I know how,
but all I can come up is “I’m sorry.”
I once read that the Earth is a little
over 4.5 billion years old,
and that the history of life began
about 3.8 billion years ago.
I may have underestimated time,
and how it changes people and feelings.
I am no longer afraid
despite of how careful I am,
so when I tell you that I love you,
I pretend that you still feel the same.