Second Person · you type the poem
every word you set on water
is a guest of the surface —
type, and watch it stay a moment.
The pool is inert until you touch a key
Every word you set on water is a guest of the surface.
There is nothing to click, nothing to scroll into life. The pool above is a real wave field, still and dark, waiting on your hands. Each keystroke falls in as a droplet. Concentric ripples spread, reflect off the edges, and interfere with one another — and exactly where two fronts cross, a letter lifts out of the dark and settles. Keep typing and every new drop travels outward across the words you already wrote, and they shiver as it passes. The surface holds your poem only as long as you keep writing to it.
How the water writes
01 · Interference
The pool is a damped wave equation solved on a grid every frame. A drop pokes the height field; the disturbance spreads as a true circular front, bounces off the walls, and sums with every other front. Constructive and destructive crossings are not painted on — they fall out of the physics.
02 · Refraction
Each glyph is bound to the spot where its drop landed. It is drawn through the local slope of the surface, so a passing ripple bends and brightens it in real time. Type a new word and watch the old ones flex as the wave reaches them — the interference becomes legible.
03 · Withdrawal
Delete a letter and the motion runs in reverse: the glyph sinks, and an inward ripple collapses toward the point it fell — as if the water were taking the droplet back up into the air. Nothing you write is permanent, and unwriting is just physics played backward.