Like you ..

Sliding the window welcome the morning sun
She saw someone scribbling on sheets,
Some already lying on the floor crumbled.
Some tored but live enough to face the sky.
For a moment the writer seemed known
But then it was a face unknown.

Tying the curtains together
She saw the morning face unwrapping the crumbled balls.
As if finding a lost piece.
He then again felt familiar
Like she was finding the destiny of her story.

Once written and still not having its ending
The last page

While watering the plants
She saw him refilling the pen.
She was bit confused,

Was he just refilling the pen
OR
Was he recollecting a lost moment
A unwritten story.