It Was Never About Timing

You were less innocent than me;
your edges coated in black.

It was never about timing.
You were unavailable;
and yet, we still did not fit.

It was never about timing.
I gave you more than I should have;
more than I received in return.

It was never about timing.
It was pleading for answers,
and met with screaming silence.

It was never about timing.
It was poetry and prose,
and disappearing for weeks that turned into months.

It was never about timing.
It was crying in the car as the sun descended in the sky,
and peering at my red eyes in the bathroom mirror.

Timing, the poor scapegoat.

Timing, the one to blame.

But it was never about timing;
It was never about that at all.