Left Unfinished

The grid sprawls, incomplete,

lines half-held in tired hands,

smudges stain the morning light

like mistakes you can’t erase.

A pen slips beneath the fridge,

forgotten, dry, as hours slipped

like the bus jolting through potholes—

a slow swerve, lost between the clues.

Across: a word unwritten,

down: a thread unspun,

I leave blanks thicker than silence,

letters undone like days ignored.

The paper waits, patient and torn,

a quiet confession of neglect—

half a story, left cold,

and the shape of an empty mind.