\"reader, read her\"
at 2 AM, your screen dims then brightens—
a single stanza pulses in the corner,
the flicker of a porch light left on.
you swipe past: new playlists to follow,
coupons to clip, endless feeds to scroll,
poets you’ve liked, genres you’ve bookmarked.
but she—this blinking poem—leans closer.
her words unfurl, slow as steam from your mug,
drawing constellations not from stars,
but from the freckles on your wrist.
you pause. the page expands—
a breath between lines, a lull between thoughts.
a mountain rises—not Everest,
just the hill behind your old school
where you once watched the sky turn violet.
waves echo in meter, not oceans,
but the sink filling as morning breaks.
and something opens not wide, but gently—
like your eyes adjusting to dawn.
she’s still there. still blinking. read her.
.