Image credits: Anna O. Photography
If our love was a poem,
It would be like those I scribble
In my notebook at 3 AM:
The ones that are never completed.
I spend hours writing them,
Perfecting every poetic device,
Trying to make all the words rhyme.
But it’s never enough.
I’m never enough.
And so the poems stay half-written,
With a messed up beginning
And an abrupt end;
Stopping at a random phrase,
A half-written sentence that makes no sense.
And for the next few weeks,
I stay obsessed;
Coming back to it,
Again and again.
Trying to finish something,
That was never supposed to begin.
©Shreya Pandey, 2016