He typed as if the world awaited rescue,
punching his small screen with feverish thumbs.
A flurry of emojis stumbled behind him,
a parade of half-formed thoughts and ellipses.
The coffee shop people whispered,
\"He hasn\'t blinked in three days.\"
The barista swore she heard
his fingers crackle like dry leaves.
A sparrow crashed into the windowpane,
misled by the fluorescent ghosts of his screen.
Outside, clouds gathered, bored with his saga,
but inside, nothing could break his rhythm.
Even his shadow grew tired, lagging behind,
folding itself into the dark corners.
\"LOL,\" he muttered, though no one had spoken.
His soul was slowly texted into oblivion,
character by character,
until Sir Text-a-Lot froze mid-scroll,
his shoulders hunched like wilting scaffolds.
A final ding echoed, fragile, orphaned.
Some say they see his thumbs at night,
ghostly, jittering in the fogged-up air,
still typing, still typing,
but with no message left to send.