INCOMPLETE Me.

These nights, so heavy and long, These days, like a half-finished song. This monsoon, dry as a sigh, This autumn, where nothing can lie. These eyes, silently turned away, This heart, in pieces, left to sway. These words, stripped of any grace, This love, with no memory’s trace. What was this love, so hollow, so bare— A longing with no past to share? And I can no longer endure the ache Of words that no meaning ever take.