A Tale of the Unfinished

When things stand still, do you, like me, question what happens with the unfinished?

Where does it go, and where does it all end up if it isn't boxed away, preserved like remnants of history?

Where do late-night conversations end when everything we meant to say is left unsaid?

Where do people go when they leave here?

Where does all the love go when the connection lies deceased?

What happens to those notebook entries telling their stories,

the ones gathering dust,

the ones never to be written in again?

Where do those stories end up?

Where do all the deleted voicemails rest,

with their excited yelps and worrisome warnings?

What about the shared moments between four walls, do they seep into the plaster, waiting to be retold?

What about the unsent text messages,

the rerouted directions,

the unfinished sketches,

the novels we never finished reading,

the discarded items of clothing and shoes on the roads,

the skeletons of incomplete structures,

the things we failed to become-

We live among a graveyard of unfinished things,

it's beautiful and it's haunting.

We conjure imaginary tales, fantasies of what could've been.

We'll never know.