We live in a digital ward
with a thin glass window—
faces and hearts pressed against it,
eyes searching for the faint shadow
of someone bringing water,
someone staying to talk.
No one comes.
We keep staring, checking the logs.
Starving,
Neglected,
feeding only on the filtered blue light.
The drip begins—
a like, a share,
sweet enough to numb the ache,
bitter enough to keep us needing more.
We press the glass harder,
waiting for the next information high
hands shaking when it’s late to arrive.
We trade our hunger for hearts,
our thirst for the clink of shares,
each notification a needle
that promises connection
but corrupts our internal disk
We are our own jailers,
our own inmates,
trading glances through the pixelated bars
The locks are open.
But we stay—
eyes on the glass,
waiting for the next drip.