Missed.

Late is the hour, and yet it is here.

Not always in eloquency carried, but regardless, effortlessly communed.

To whom is the disregard?

To the timing missed or that which regretted it?
Probably neither or both.

For the guilt wilts in the face of a conditioned bet with no regard to savor this hour of late — we crave the moment not to be ever wisped, and yet always here it is to its own timing, a bliss that can’t be missed.

Until the next ❤️ beat ~.~.~