Too Late to Use

There it was, the advice

cracked across the phone screen,

blurred words I can’t quite read

but feel deep in my throat.

If only I’d held this when the nights came

all ragged and hungry,

not this rusted, broken tool

that’s no good for digging out regrets.

Years are stacked like empty cans,

banging loud with might-have-beens.

Somehow the lesson arrived

too late for the hands that needed it.

I keep trying to fold it back

into the shape of who I was,

but it slips, worthless,

and I’m left holding the cold.