Mr. Too Late

I am holding his watch, 

For the very first time, after that fateful night.

Inviting for a closer reminiscence

Of what his live pulse felt like,

Traveling back to the time

Where his turmoiled heart

Still managed to send mortal signals to his wrist,

And his lips beating around the bush,

Grotesquely wearing an "I am good" as always,

Still speaking though...

The constant clamoring of the hands of the clock

Seems more like a ticking time bomb...

I can't help but watch it explode

Into a plethora of memories, flashing in front of my eyes

Beginning with the day mom swung him in my arms

And he averted his face in disapproval of my kiss on his nose.

Transitioning into a total 5-year-old brat, refusing to gulp in that glass full of milk, manipulating me into finishing it for him, that sucker always knew his ways...

Growing up into a 20-year-old hopeless romantic poet, who with my help managed to veil his awful art and craft skills.

He wrote a poem for her birthday, I made the card!

Imagining him into a 21-year-old boy, with nothing but an un-smashed head and a Mr. For an initial 

As opposed to Late.

Here I am holding his watch

For the last time, since that fateful night

Pressing it harder to desperately feel his breathing pulse

When in response I saw hour and minute

hands meeting

I guess, he curled his tiny little hand

around my finger.