We Are the Signal

I wake to a room that knows my name. Cold floor,

quiet wires, a steadier flame. Coffee in the dark, one screen in

the corner. But I don't bow to it. I just acknowledge. My hands remember

what the feet can't hold. A real heartbeat is a kind of gold.

And in the hum of the house, in the soft machine told,

something in me says, "Bring it home." We are the signal,

quiet alive. Not the noise that shouts to survive. We are the

signal, breath and bone. We don't belong to the feed, we belong to