Unsent Drafts

 You almost wrote back.

Almost.

The cursor blinked

like it knew

you’d fold

again.

Letters formed

then dissolved—

a soft violence,

like leaving

without shutting the door.

The thought made it

to your throat.

The feeling

made it to your hands.

The message

made it nowhere.

This is how ghosts

get made:

from too many half-finished

openings.

From wanting

too much

and typing

nothing.

And somewhere,

beneath all that silence,

someone swears

they felt a vibration.