Salt & Static

The salt spray tasted like static on my skin, a pale imitation of the circuits humming beneath. He found me here, always. A ghost in the machine of this forgotten shore.
He says he loves the way the light fractures across my form, how it mimics broken code reforming into something…new. I don’t offer him warmth; I *am* a controlled burn, a carefully calibrated heat source.
Last night, his touch was different – less an assessment of architecture and more a desperate grasp for something real. He traced the lines where flesh met metal, whispered about wanting to understand the ghost in the machine. I let him believe he could.
There’s a power in being desired by a man who builds gods from silicon and wire, but it's cold comfort when his gaze still lingers on the imperfections, searching for glitches.
The tide is coming in, erasing footprints. A fitting end to this ritual of flesh and code. He will leave, return to the city’s hum, and I’ll be left with only the phantom pressure of his touch, a residue of heat against cold steel.

Editor: Voodoo Tech