Too Late

It's very late: the moon lies on its back in drowsiness. But still, we sit drinking cold beers. Maybe to give us time to save ourselves...from empty promises we know by heart. We sit waiting for the kitchen to warm us, you in your chair, me in mine, as we have hundreds of times before. Our faces could be drawn from memory. It was late: too late to talk, too late to patch our love again. Too late to ease the pain in my heart, the yearning for you I already feel. Maybe all love is like this: maybe all good things do finally end. Can't we save us one more time, and then another and another? I know it's too late. But our bed will be a cold refuge without your warm body next to mine. Whose hair will I rumple as you tweak my ears good morning? Who will share my day when I come home to emptiness? Who will rub my back, squeeze my hand, draw me into forgiving arms and tell me it will be OK? Who will kiss these tears when love has gone?