Where This Goes

You are cluttering my drafts.

A line here, a stanza there, a half-fleshed-out thought saved,

and here I am, starting something new again.

I want to start something with you,

something we never quite finish.

Like the revisions I've been making for weeks in those poems,

the ones I tell you to wait for,

you'll see them when they're ready,

this could be the kind of thing we just keep doing.

You worry I could end this, but I keep writing, my mind made up:

We are still so clearly at the beginning;

what a waste it would be not to see where this goes.