Incomplete
Last night, I was looking for the lost documents on my bookshelf, That's when my hands got the old diary. Then I read the pages of past, spilled ink, unsaid feelings, incomprehensible signs, meaningless words, left out spaces and cutting marks. There are some blank pages, which I had left to complete our story, The old and dry petals of rose, the one you gave me as a mark of our love; are still there. The rose which I tried to keep alive for days and nights, but it died, and left behind these dried petals, And the story, 'incomplete'.