Erasure

The margins blur where thought dissolves— morning fog against the glass, each breath a question mark that fades before the answer forms.

What I meant to say collects like lint in pockets, small weights pulling fabric toward earth, forgotten until washing day when they scatter across tile, witnesses to a life lived half-speaking.

The pen skips over certain words, ink pools in valleys of paper, refuses to cross into what needs no naming— the door left ajar, the song that stops mid-line, the gesture that fell short.

I gather the unsaid in both hands, watch it slip through the latticed fingers of language, a handful of water that knows its way home to the groundless dark below.