By midnight the flat was quiet except for the bins.
They rustled. Paper shifted, folded, stretched. Crumpled drafts clawed their way out, shaking off stains of tea and baked beans. Half-finished sonnets limped across the floor. A haiku missing its last line dragged itself up the bedframe.
The writer snored.
One by one, the poems pressed themselves to his ears. Broken rhymes hissed like snakes: complete me… mend me… don’t leave me orphaned.
A sonnet whispered its unfinished couplet so insistently that he dreamt in rhyme, floating on couplets that refused to subside. A free-verse fragment sobbed, we had promise once.
The unfinished epic, pages torn and yellowing, leaned close and rumbled: you thought I was too big. But you were too small.
He woke choking. Ink stained his pillow. Lines he hadn’t written yet were scrawled across the wall in his own handwriting.
Every sheet of paper in the flat was full. The poems had finished themselves—using his hand.
And in the corner of the final page, a neat signature he didn’t remember writing:
Author: The Forgotten.
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