So many incomplete stories,
So many unfinished sentences
So 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 perfect
It’s not shattered, the book has burnt
Closure has been received, and I bid you adieu
This will be the last poem that will be written for you.
Linking this post to #AtoZChallenge (http://www.a-to-zchallenge.com/)