You were late.
So late that I had given up on you
but when I first saw you extinguishing a smoke in the struggling grass
I knew it was you
and I called your name
and this was my first glimpse of you,
fumbling to hide your vices,
hair springing around your face
like a thousand little Slinkies
yearning to get free.

You were late.
So late that I had given up on you
on the 7th floor of a hospital,
my first hospital,
we sat outside and fumbled with our vices
and you told me it was over,
two kids ****** into the murky pond of
ADULT ISSUES,
neither one of us did our job very well
and all my fellow patients kept telling me how pretty you were that night.

You were late.
At 21 you were too late to save me
but I never gave up on you.
Forgiveness is an unfaithful mistress
and I look back and sigh,
remembering the ease with which I hated you.

You are late.
I am still waiting.
I am waiting.