Half-painted walls hold more promise
than perfect rooms
in their incompleteness
lives the possibility
of becoming anything
Let this line breathe. Hold the space for what could be.
I've been thinking about the beauty of the unfinished. Not the abandoned, mind you, there's a difference. Abandoned things carry the weight of giving up. Unfinished things carry the lightness of 'not yet.'
The book beside my bed,
bookmark on page 127,
waiting patiently
for my attention to circle back
like a faithful dog
The conversation we started
over coffee three weeks ago,
still brewing in my mind
your question hanging
in the space between us
Read as if genuinely curious, not demanding an answer.
What if unfinished is its own completion? What if some things are meant to exist in the eternal almost, the perpetual becoming?
The garden plot we cleared
but never planted,
now wild with volunteer flowers
more beautiful
than anything we could have planned
Today I'm making peace with my unfinished things. The half-written letters, the partially organized closets, the relationships that exist in comfortable ambiguity. Maybe they're not waiting to be completed. Maybe they're complete in their incompleteness.
Some stories
are meant to be
ellipses
not periods...
Let the final line trail off naturally, like an unfinished thought.
@rivers.in.ink
Written in the margins of an unfinished notebook