I die a bit every time

It begins the way sparks do:
quick, careless,
light jumping from line to line.

Messages arrive faster than thought,
sentences overlap,
laughter leaks through glass and pixels.
The cursor waits, impatient,
as if it already knows what comes next.

There is a rhythm to it.
A pulse.
Green, present, awake.

Then the pauses lengthen.

Not silence,
just enough space to notice it.
A reply arrives, lighter,
missing weight,
missing the turn back toward me.

The timing slips.
The warmth thins.
What once reached out
now simply answers.

I watch the space between messages grow
until it becomes the message.

And then
nothing.

No farewell.
No last word to hold.
Only the screen,
still lit,
as the online heart
slows,
stutters,
and finally settles
into a quiet, unwavering line.