Finished Without Me

The boxes I left blank

are now filled with someone else's ink,

their handwriting in my spaces,

their answers replacing the blank faces

of questions I didn't finish.

They left it on my desk like a gift,

like I needed the shift

from incompletion to done,

like leaving things undone

was somehow a failing they could fix.

I stared at their neat mix

of letters, the way they solved

what I'd abandoned, unresolved,

and felt small—or was it angry?—

at this strange act, this boundary

they didn't know they were crossing

when they finished my puzzle, tossing

my incompletion aside.