When you leave me, there will
Remain a hundred missing pieces,
A forever-unfinished puzzle;
Almost enough there to picture,
Yet not even half complete.
I may wonder now and again,
What it could have been,
Or might have turned out to be;
Or if, perhaps, it could ever
Have been completed at all.
Jagged-edged contours marking the
The thousand things unsaid, the
Countless volumes left unwritten,
Now never to be read.
When you leave, this much I know:
You’ll take pieces of me with you
And I can’t help but wonder
If you’ll ever even notice them
Lying there among old things.
Or if by chance you’ll remember
How they’d gotten there,
Where they came from and
If you should happen to ponder
What it was all supposed to be.
When you leave, I beg you,
Take all of them with you,
Leave not one piece behind,
To further puzzle a wretched heart
And riddle a restless mind.