Strangers

Strangers who have yet to meet,
Strangers who have yet to make
Memories they would want to keep
Memories they would want to break.

Strangers who have yet to see
That they, before, were once friends
Strangers won't let each other be
People who can make amends. 

Should I ask if you and I

Are strangers of a light degree?

Or if we are people who walk disguised

As ones who care most certainly?

It sounds unfinished. Like it was just cut abruptly. Well, I couldn't think of another verse anymore after the last one. I blame my hormones for this--the poem and the inability to finish the poem. They aren't buzzing like they were a couple of days ago, but they have gotten me down a bit. I miss a lot of people right now.