2 Little 2 Late

A little bit of bitterness, a little bit of heat - and you can no longer tell where love ends and the habit of winning begins. Everything seems to be said correctly, even too correctly - the words slip out like memorised lines, but inside, that ‘slightly untimely’ feeling still itches. It feels as if the heart has missed its own train and is now standing on the platform, basking in the remnants of someone else's attention.

There is tension in the rhythm, a weary ‘oh well’ in the voice. It's too late, too honest, too vivid. And yet - it's beautiful. Like an argument in the rain, where everything has already been decided, but no one is leaving first.