Too Late

Sometimes I think I have

a better relationship with my Dad now than I ever did before.

That makes me feel sad. Properly, deep down as far inside my little black heart as sadness can go. Down the well to the centre of earth sad. Guilty too. Rational, irrational, unwanted, undeserved, deserved guilt.

It makes me realise to have had a better relationship before, it only would have taken some effort from me. That’s all it’s taken now that I’m the only one left here to make some.

Effort being some confidence. Some guts. Some understanding. Some forgiveness. I needed to be stronger and softer at the same time in different ways. I needed to be a million and three things. I should have done this. And that. I wish endlessly and every day that I did something differently. Just a small something. Just a one something.

I can wish all I want. Wish wash. It’s such a fucking stupid concept. And a waste of time. It’s too late to matter.

People say it’s never too late. Sometimes I say that. But it’s not true. Because when the only way to tell him that I’m sorry and that I love him and that I miss him and that I would do so many things to get another hug that crushes my breath is through a dream, it is too late.