𝐼𝐼. 𝒰𝓃𝒻𝒾𝓃𝒾𝓈𝒽𝑒𝒹

The ink dries before I am done,

before the thought unfolds,

before the words learn how to breathe.

I leave them there—half-formed, waiting.

Somewhere in the margins,

a sentence lingers, afraid to exist.

It knows the weight of being written,

the permanence of being seen.

I tell myself I will return,

that I will give these fragments an ending.

But the truth hides between the lines—

some stories are meant to stay undone.

And so, the pages collect silence,

pressed between the weight of almosts.

Not forgotten, not remembered—

only waiting, like me

- R.E