Unfinished marks

Found it in my coat pocket,

a pencil stub, worn like a bruise,

tip blunt, shy beneath torn fabric,

a broken finger wanting to write.

Words unspoken smeared in lead,

marks I never made on paper’s skin,

a story cracked and half-drawn,

waiting for hands too clumsy to finish.

This graphite holds the weight of silence,

pressing soft, a slow ache,

a line that breaks before it begins,

unfinished and aching to be whole.