Three Beats Behind.

Melancholy spinster.
Spinning romantic ideals through her fingers, each one slipping past.
Feelings of inadaquecy linger long after the ought to have been dismissed.
Never quite bringing herself to cry.
Can't show that single tear of defeat

Long gone is the feeling of lips on hers
Not even a true memory remains
Just the phantom of a memory
Not quite sure if it's real,
If it actually really happened.

And how much was missed?
How much went to waste?
A year trying not to hurt him
Now left isolated, awkward and unsure.

Timing never was quite right.
Two beats ahead of everyone else.
Now suddenly three beats behind.

Twenty eight minutes to midnight.