The Unwritten Weight

The screen is white.

So white it hurts

a little.

The cursor blinks.

A tiny pulse,

insistent,

a dare.

Twenty minutes.

The fly on the pane

has a better story.

It hits glass, then moves,

a small, desperate arc.

It tries again.

It has a purpose.

The hum of its body,

louder than my own.

What good is a word,

if it just sits here,

a breath held in?

Does it matter,

this internal stutter?

The blinking light,

it just keeps

asking.