Somewhere, right now, someone is reading your poem.

Not scrolling. Reading.

Their eyes on your line breaks,

your strange word choice,

the thing you almost deleted at two in the morning and then didn't.

They don't know your name

or what you look like

or why you write.

They only know what you gave them.

And it was enough.

It was more than enough.

It was the exact thing they needed and didn't know how to ask for.