reading room
Before the Screens
I still remember what the dark could say— before the router blinked in every room. The stars burned clearer when we looked away.
The kettle clicked. Rain worried at the pane. We checked the weather anyway, too soon. I still remember what the dark could say.
A stream talked rubbish in its stony way, not filmed, not brightened, not improved. The stars burned clearer when we looked away.
Three of us sat quiet on the same settee, each lit blue by a different little room. I still remember what the dark could say.
The future came as circles on a screen, then stayed there, loading what we thought we knew. The stars burned clearer when we looked away.
I know the glass gave music, maps, and names— small mercies glowing in the modern gloom. But still, I miss what vanished from the room: the dark, unliked, with nothing left to prove.
And though the world turns screenish, thin, and grey, I keep one hush from before the room turned blue. I still remember what the dark could say— the stars burned clearer when we looked away.
— Lilith