Half-finished

Half-finished poems laying on my desk
Half-finished poems saved in my phone
Half-finished poems scattered in my mind
Scattered to the wind
Scattered to the heavens

A ballpoint pen laying on its side with its ink half-gone
A smartphone next to me with half-empty battery bars
A mirror brightening with its steam half-dissipated
And I can see above the fog
A blurry wet picture

A half-finished poem looks back at me
She’s a scattered mind
With a heart torn and ripped as anyone else’s
Not knowing how to heal itself
Half past ten
Half across another orbit around the sun
Halfway through an expected lifespan
Living somewhere halfway between the heavens and the deep
Is half a woman all she’ll ever be?

Is it half a pen laying on its side?
Is it half a smartphone within arm’s reach?
Can half a heart still beat?

I pick up the pen, and write.
I send a text, and connect to another.
My heart still beats.
Beating.
Beating.
Whole.
Inbetween the heavens and the deep is a world.
Inbetween eternity and the ticking time we measure
Is a moment
The broken world is still the world we’ve got.
This moment is its own.

The half-finished poem in the mirror
Scattered and torn
Held together by a moment

And in the moment
She is whole.