Dear ________, Is it too late?
Is it too late to tell you how much I loved holding your hand? Too late to say how courageous I felt, the two of us, getting coffee, eating food. Late like a period maybe in a sentence. Too late to say you were my favorite scar for-- how long -- still, to this day? I touched your hair. Too late though, you wanted someone else. Or, simply, didn’t want me. I wore your rejection around like hair dye. You were my cherry berry red highlight. I gave you so much that when you weren’t there anymore I had to choose a different way. A more lighted path.
Is it too late to say how much I miss you? Too late to read you that poem just one more time? Laying across your lap. Was it too late then? You kept the book which I think is weird. I would have done the same.
Is it too late to apologize for the manic phone calls? I called and called and hoped you’d call me back. Invite me up. I walked by your apartment insane. Tired. Listening to music you shared with me. Hoped you’d dedicate something to me. Little old me. Little old ugly me. Was it too much to ask that you follow through with your little, drunk, typed letters? I think it was.Is it too late to submit this poem? I wrote it just yesterday. Could it make it in? Can you validate my life’s work? Deadline seems more like a suggestion but it’s not. It’s a dead line that will not get a funeral. Only other dead words. Is it too late to even try? I wait and wait for every deadline to pass, hoping I won’t have to experience rejection ever ever ever again. But I do. I still do.
Is it too late to apologize for that fight?
Is it too late to apologize for every fight?
You’re not dead but some part of us is.
Is it too late to go back to the way things were? Hugging. Two bodies together, innocent. Easy. Admiration without feelings. Laughter but not flirting. You’re far away in that other city. I’m married now, which I like. I like that I’m the one who made a decision. I like that you make decisions, too. I still check in, when I can, but, isn’t too late, isn’t it too late, it is too late to go back to where we were. I’m glad. I think I like you better this way.
Emily Idzior is an aspiring poet and librarian who has to shush people poetically. She has a MA in salad making and wishes she loved tea without sugar but, alas, has a sweet tooth. She cannot quit waffles or coffee and writes in her personal blog once a year.
Also she has a cat.