Half-Written

A box of college texts,

the smell of old paper dust.

Underneath, a manuscript, three chapters in.

Yellowed pages, a half-drawn diagram

next to the margin.

A pen mark, a dried-up blue stain

where I stopped mid-sentence.

It sits, waiting.

Always waiting.

The story, a quiet thing,

never quite told.

Just the weight of all the beginnings

that never made it to an end.