Static and Stone

Light without warmth pours through screens, pixels blooming in the dark, each notification a small hunger we feed with our glowing faces.

But stone remembers differently— walls worn smooth by ten thousand palms, roots that push through concrete knowing only patient time.

We touch glass and call it connection. The river carries no memory of the bridge built over it, only the weight of water and the slow work of erosion.

Between the scroll and the soil, between the flicker and the fixed star, something hollow echoes— a question we've forgotten how to ask with our mouths closed.