She doesn't look up, not once.
None of them do. 

Not when the words hang
From the tips of their drooping mouths, 
Droplets splashing onto those
Neon screens clutched in
Sweaty hands, soaring and tumbling past
Instagram, tumblr, straight on til'
Status udates, and 
Timelines that tell life stories and
Remind them that 
"It's her birthday today" because
They forgot that they forgot last year too.
So they crack their neck 
(It hurts to look down for so long)
, lift a pale finger to click: 
"Wish you a happy birth--

She is behind them, but they don't 
See, or don't bother to.

So when those words falter, halt
To a stop because that pale finger thinks
It would be awkward, will wishing
A happy birthday mean...
(Interest?!) 
She sees, and keeps silent, because those words:
They have grown cold, hard, like concrete
Left to cool for too long. 
And when they close that white and blue screen,
Swipe on to more important things,
She picks up the hem of
Her faded dress and plucks off that 
One loose strand of thread that
Never seem to 
Stop. 

She closes her wings and fold them 
Back within herself. 

And on that particular night, 
On that particular date, 
She clutches a neon screen in her 
Sweaty hands, and count. 

1...

2...

3.

3 pokes.