Unfinished

The things I start to type, erased
Have served their purpose in this case
Like so many scattered, half-writ letters
That could have ended so much better

But I'd rather that they didn't end
That I might, for a while, pretend
The man typing, and the man erasing
Weren't so split on their retracing

The deleting man on thoughts of love
And things that he thinks fondly of
The typing man on what went wrong
And mixing drinks to be too strong

All the thoughts that I have started
Spewing, blue and broken-hearted
Are stricken out now, for a while
But is it wisdom, or just denial