Too Late

So I'm giving it a try. Here's a poem after a long time, 

But you can call it whatever you want. It won't make any sense, anyway.

But I'm afraid I must warn you that this might sound like a cliché love poem every heartbroken poet writes. 

You might leave it in the middle or not read it at all.

It doesn't matter because I have to say what I have to say before I lose my sanity.

Your name lingers on the tip of my tongue;

A bitter taste of dying love

Right before it gets to bloom in the spring.

My body trembles at the thought of your touch;

Anuclear holocaust waiting to break loose under my skin.

This is a war I don't know how to fight.

If I told you how time runs backwards every time I'm with you, 

And how, when I'm not with you, it marches ahead with lightning speed;

Would you stay back for a while and make it slow down for me?

Every waking moment has a bad habit of turning into a bad memory I can't contain.

I'm losing the track of time. All the yesterdays I spent wondering you'd come back are all blur.

Love has its wicked way of making people forget time; of leaving their hearts unguarded in the hour of need.

I'm sitting here, contemplating about the sentence I just wrote.

Realization dawns upon me.

—𝘐𝘵'𝘴 𝘵𝘰𝘰 𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘦, 𝘯𝘰𝘸. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘢𝘮𝘢𝘨𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘢𝘭𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘺 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘥𝘰𝘯𝘦.