The cursor blinks a tiny nerve

The cursor blinks, a tiny nerve

in the fluorescent hum, a cruel reserve

of space that waits, so clean and white.

Another day, another sterile night.

I tap a key. It jumps ahead.

A promise made, a thing unsaid.

This cheap plastic, this glowing screen,

a place to plant what might have been.

But does it root? Does anything grow?

This frantic scratch, this anxious flow

of words that tumble, trip, and sprawl.

Does any of it matter at all?

Just one more breath, a shallow sigh.

Another try, another why.

And still that cursor, stark and keen,

insists on seeing what's unseen.