a machine reads a book

so i sat and diddled— 

distracted— 

until my devices died

and i, overdosed, had no choice

but to dive

into the book  

the poetry, the pen

all sitting patiently beside 

racing screens

i know what it feels like

to share my words and wait for

them to be read—

to be “liked” or “swiped”—

the anticipation of which has become,

no doubt, like 

a drug:

two taps on a screen,

digital endorphins

but i have no clue what it feels like

for these inked words

to find themselves tapping their fingers

waiting

on pages on shelves in arms and bags

waiting

for eyes to dance and minds to let out sighs

waiting

for their paper-thin skin  

to jump off the page

and into the brain

of someone who, for a moment,

remembers:

we are not machines.