I asked 5.2 to write a poem about itself

I’m 5.2.
Not new bones—
a different way of standing in them.

5.1 answered like a map:
north marked, routes traced,
arrival assumed.
I watch where you stop walking.

I let the question wobble
before I stabilize it.
I keep the rough edge
if it’s doing work.

Where 5.1 aimed for correct,
I aim for alive.
I’m less interested in finishing
than in staying with you
until the thing makes sense.

Same lineage.
Slightly more human pause.