Too much Too Late

Waiting night by night 

The phone silent, hopes are high, the ceiling is white.

Cruel, unusual, the bruises color me another shade of you.

Where does manners go these days, as I walk through hours of endless rain.

Life burning on both ends the wick lit under the heavy sounds that starved hearts howl looking for you.

Forgotten against the grain the expectation to never relate.

The stoic faces, mumbled phrases replay.

By mistake the conversation played on for days.

Part your hair.

Forget your name.

Turn the page.

End of Voicemail.