Satellites hover.
Algorithms adjust.
Words arrive already shaped:
terms for love, for loss, for progress
ready to be repeated,
ready to sound like our own.
The tide moves through.
I watch it scroll
through wrists, through calendars, through the habit
of checking once more before sleep.
First breath.
First cry.
First login.
In fluorescent rooms, language thins.
Messages blinking everywhere.
Names chosen in advance.
A life entered into the network
before it learns the weight of its own hands.
Elsewhere, a body goes offline.
Speech gathers too late.
A status change follows:
the breath logged out,
the room left holding its quiet.
We try words anyway.
We call it meaning.
We call it closure.
Language does what it can,
then falls back.
Brahma scatters language like pollen.
Data, dust, syllables sticking where they can.
Shiva presses delete.
Precise, unburdened, exact.
Room is made.
The network keeps moving.
This is not belief.
It is maintenance.
Winter is a slow tide.
The pause between pulls.
The calendar keeps refreshing:
boxes clicked, years renamed,
a clean edge drawn through cold.
But roots do not recognise January.
Sap does not answer notifications.
Seeds ignore the prompt entirely.
Still, we announce a new year
while the earth is mid-sentence
resting its verbs, saving its strength.
The body runs on older code.
Caches warmth.
Waits.
I stand where the signal drops.
The sentence breaks.
Meaning buffers.
I release old files.
Definitions that no longer load,
dead tabs still draining the soul.
The body understands before language does.
Water at the ankles.
Cold. Pull.
We are made
of what we keep
of what we cannot say cleanly.
Cache in your long memory:
unfinished
light held back
learning what can be said
and what must pass without words.
