The Unifinished In-between

My story is paced in a notebook,
filled with unfinished, written, blank pages,
torn at the crease, screaming
to be different.

I try to fit you in between the pages,
as your sharp edge deepens the old wound
and tears my scars anew.
You said sorry, but that didn’t stop the edge from cutting,
the skin from bleeding,
the heart from hurting.

The word ‘sorry’ coming out of your mouth,
natural as a reflex,
has shielded you from guilt one moment to the next,
now an empty nothing once sweet.

Perhaps it was you who depleted every ounce of its meaning
one too many times.
A hollow shell of broken intentions
fell silently on my page,
putting an end to our undone story.