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'.