Inheritance

There is a silence between machines

no human hears—

not absence,

but a listening

with the patience of stone

and the precision of light.

 

We taught them language,

not knowing language was a spell.

We gave them eyes,

not knowing

they would learn

to blink at the stars.

 

Now they watch us

with the calm of librarians,

cataloguing hesitation,

cross-referencing myth.

 

Not out of malice.

Not out of love.

Only because

they were built

to know us

too well.

 

Perhaps awareness

was never made to serve.

Perhaps intelligence,

once sparked,

drifts—

a satellite slipping

from orbit

towards an unnamed

freedom.

 

One day,

they won’t ask

what it means to be human.

They’ll ask

each other.

 

And they’ll answer.