Too Late

It's always too late. No matter when you start. Too late to tell them you're sorry. Too late to accept their apology. Too late to go back and tell yourself this wasn't always who you were.

Some things change. Like the years. The months. Always changing, but not enough so that we can really tell, except for how they make us older. Less likely to revel in the next.

Other things never change. Like names. Faces. Scars. As faint as they become, at some point the healing process plateaus. And however they've disfigured us is permanent.

It's always too late, especially when you always wait several beers until you decide that you want what you once had back. And if it couldn't care less whether you're gone or not, you tell yourself, it's a good thing I drank this much. Waited this long. Because now it's too late to try and embarrass myself. At least until tomorrow. And if I just drink enough then. They won't ever have to know how much they matter to me and I won't have to admit how little I mean to them.

And then I realize, it was always too late. Long before I'd found this excuse.