So many incomplete stories,So many unfinished sentencesSo many instances of “What could have been”
Days spent in regret,Years spent in trying to turn time back,It was hard to let go; but foolish to hold on,It was a jagged cut; a neat swipe would’ve been easier to tackle.
I preserved them all in a book Of memories; I tried burning it. But then the pages began,Catching fire on their own.
All because of that there exists a larger than life concept of perfectIt’s not shattered, the book has burntClosure has been received, and I bid you adieuThis will be the last poem that will be written for you.
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