Too late

Every picture I've taken turned out

to be the same stoic face staring hard

back to yours while you tried to find

something wrong in my smile or

whatever you would call whatever it

was that's been smeared across my

face for the last three years.

I always decide too late that I

should've just driven to the

fucking store and picked up the

cigarettes or maybe had one or

two more so that I could forget

that I'll be too fucking late to

get to you because as a coward

shivers in fear I shiver in the

cold air night while the wind just

keeps fucking howling past me

reminding me that it could be carrying

my smoke or something that makes

it worthwhile to be out in the road

somewhere near two-thirty.

I've driven enough lately to realize that I ended up at the same fucking place cada vez (cada vez). And something about anything that needs to be said past three a.m. can be said in the morning but I'd be willing to talk with you right now (o lo que sea). And how sad I realized I was in comparison to who you are and what it is you may have been or become, singularly disproving that I will never change myself but also proving that the same steps should have been climbed in my life already and that I've reached the top of some shortcut staircase where we're both right here at the top with a different view from different sides and what does it fucking matter if we can't see the same thing or different things together. And the key to life being that I've already let go of whatever it was I hadn't even stumbled upon yet, because with a future so wrongfully carved into stone, I learned to follow it anyway. Like if we could break from the path that whoever doesn't exist above has lain before us we could start our life new, running from the heavens with thunder and lightening crackling behind us as the trail turns to mud and blood and ash behind our very eyes. But when the thing that matters is that I didn't sink into the path myself, myself is the only one I've told. And with myself I can pull away just as easily as I was put together with some sort of cheap-sick-slick glue from the value bin. Just two pieces of me slopped and slapped together but one's missing insides and the other's lost its brother. Jump inside and we'll see what we can do, to be the missing link of what linked my body to my soul and made it fully inflated into the slouching mass you see slumping through the hallways every night, wondering, "Where does it go at night?" asking yourself, "¿Adónde él se va cada noche con si mismo?"

Like it mattered where a shadow fell when the Sun decided not to quit for a day.