Half-Done

Under the pile,

a forgotten Tuesday.

The news, already cold,

but the crossword grid,

it held a breath.

Someone had started,

pencil faint, then firm.

'Five letters, across: lament.'

L-A-M-E-N-T,

pushed hard into the box.

Then, nothing.

A few more, scattered,

isolated islands

in a sea of white squares.

The ink, where they’d been sure,

a darker stain.

The smudged grey lead,

where doubt began to bloom.

What made them stop?

The coffee getting cold?

A sudden, sharper thought?

Or the blankness,

too vast, too wide,

to fill with words

they couldn't find?