Unwritten

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16

I am the breath
between the lines
not the hand that writes
the poet reaches for me
but I slip through their grasp
a shadow they cannot name
a pulse that does not wait
I am the thought
before it forms
the silence after it fades
the pause that lingers
between what’s spoken
and what’s felt
a ripple in the air long after
the words have settled
I am the poem
unspoken
unwritten
and still

16 thoughts on “Unwritten”

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