The screen yawns wide,

empty as the Nullarbor plain—

"no comments posted yet," it whispers,

a sign more accusatory than absent.

 

You may look, it says, but don’t touch.

Permission belongs to ghosts,

long gone or never given at all.

 

Kindness cracks its knuckles,

flicks a cigarette to the curb—

museum-bound, archived, unreachable.

What thoughts could fill the void?

Too dark. Too light. Too wrong.

 

And yet the cursor waits,

blinking endlessly, smug

as a lighthouse shining

on waters you’re not allowed to cross.

 

So, here we are, friend— reading windows

that don’t know the name of the wind,

nor the whisper of tides rising too far to span.