Unfinished, Unloved

I never got to finish the poem I was writing for you–a pitiful ending in itself. It lives on the shelf in the shadowy far right corner of my bedroom, With an overflowing pile of other dusty junk that I will never look at again but can’t bring myself to throw away. Silently begging for a flood or fire to get rid of it for me. I fall in love with the birds at my window; who end up taking flight without warning, Trying to find a better place to make their home. They remind me of you, And I finally unclench my cramping fists and let myself cry into the palms of my hands. How am I supposed to mourn something that I never quite held? When does it stop?