The poem that needed no name

Ink stains the edges of the page,
words stacked like bricks,
worlds rising, collapsing,
then rising again.

Dreams pressed into sentences,
sentences pressed into hours,
hours pressed into the weight of waiting.

The desk is still.
The chair is still.
The air tastes of “almost there.”

Then, somewhere a door shuts—
too soft to matter,
too loud to forget.

This work is licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 4.0