My Incompletes

I've written a million pieces about you

I've written another million for you.

I started this one to say I love you.

I started that one to say I miss you.

I started that other one to say I don't need you.

I even started those other ones to lie that I feel nothing for you.

Now I have a folder filled with incomplete pieces involving you.

Maybe I just like complicating it.

Maybe I feel too much to actually add an artistic twist to it, because at the end of the day, I'm always in the same place.

I keep trying to move on.

But we have left so much unsaid, so much undone.

So every time I write about you, it's doomed to be incomplete.

Just like we are.