My mom yells at me because I never finish my cup of coffee
and I’m like mom,
I never finish anything.
Everything feels incomplete, slowly growing cold like the coffee
she made just for me
and I want to apologize to her.
I’m sorry I never finish what I wanted so badly in the first place.
It seems like I can only finish the things I don’t really want.
That six pack of beer, the hole in the wall, those red lines across my skin.
I finish the things that hurt to get them over with
and leave the things I love unfinished so I can always come back to them.
Pick up where I left off, know they’ll still be there,
waiting to be completed for when I’m ready.
Greeted with open arms and a kiss on the forehead;

“Its okay that you left, I’ve remained here for you to return.
I have not moved an inch.”