Unfinished

You loom at me from the corner of the room

When I see the map of the world next to the

Tall bookshelf busting at its seams.

Pages like fly-aways

Framing a woman’s face.

 

You peer at me curiously

When I open my cupboards,

The unusual spices

Enticing; once destined

For a delicate recipe.

You fill me full of failure,

When I read half-written poems with

Flawed phrases unfolding my feelings,

Which fall naked and raw on the page.

 

You are always there,

In the cracks in my heart.

A reminder of our story.

What it was and what it is now.

Because nothing that is real is ever finished.