Unfinished

I know my death is inevitable but it some ways it seems as if I might be able to postpone it, indefinitely, if I never complete anything. My life is a cluttered mess of unfinished stories, songs, and one-quarter-of-the-page-left relationships—everything dangling by an unfinished thread. Closure terrifies me.
Even this piece, this short companion piece to my life, I struggle over. Which word might finish this before I’m aware enough to stop it? Which thought will complete the communication, seal the deal with the reader, and end our discourse. I force myself to continue. Ever so often, I look up and weakly smile at the Indian businessman to my right. He can see the concern on my face and returns my troubled pleasantry in a polite way—I take a half glance at him and then turn away, leaving him with an uncompleted return smile. I won’t end it with him, and I won’t end it with