Semi-colon

It has always been like this between them—
things intentionally left unfinished so that

there was always a reason to come back.

Tiny fragments of shattered porcelain scattered

on the kitchen floor; a needle sticking from a 

button that's half sewn; an unfinished bottle

of whiskey; a barely living plant on a pot, and 

an open bag of soil.

He painted her once: the canvas was filled with

burgundy and magenta splatters that used to

mean something until they didn't. But he

continued stroking his brush anyway.

She wrote about him once: one thousand eight

hundred forty-nine pages worth of memories

immortalised on parchment. But she forgot paper

burned when lit, and dissolved when drenched in

water; and her mistake was writing about the 

sun even after it has long been covered by

storm clouds.