When love comes late, you're not prepared: your hair is unwashed, the dishes are still piled in the sink. You have no training in manners. You were never taught the postures of poetry, or the address of emotions. When love comes late, you have no defence: mornings bruise your belly, nights alone abrade your dreams. You have no lore to placate them. You were never taught the intricacies of candlelight, or the language of eyelashes in sleep. When love comes late, you have no protection: your dance is discerned, the masks heaped like spoils before the tyrant. You are not prepared for attention. There is no recourse, no shield or appeal, against love, when love comes late.