I Loved You Too Late

We started in passions embrace
Giving in to the whims of flesh
And because of our obsession with the physical
You called us the killers of true love

I laughed
“Yes, I am the matador of love”

Still rapturous, you were hopeful in that moment.
“I can feel your heart beating against my chest.
It feels as if it is my very own, and for this moment in time, your heart is mine.”

You confessed your love for me then, but I shot it down.
Not with cupid’s arrow, but with an arrow loosed in a playful hunt,
One which struck hard the snow white dove
And caused her blood to flow.

But then the transition…

Your heart grew distant and detached.
Mine grew soft
And sprouted wings of love for you.
But the game had been played too long,
And by the time that I,
The matador,
Confessed my true love, your heart was gone.
You had become invisible, a ghost.
Too little too late, goes the cliché.
What I felt was real, but arrived too slowly.
In the end, I guess,
I loved you, yes.
But I loved you too late.
Too late to matter.
Too late to mend wounds or open doors.
Too late to save either of us.
In the end,
I loved you too late.