Sanguine Circuit Ritual

The water does not merely warm my skin; it carves into it, a ritualistic infusion of steam and silicon-veined heat. I sit in this bath, an altar of liquid mercury, listening to the city’s mechanical pulse thrumming through the stone floor like a tribal drum made of steel.
He is not here in flesh, but his presence is a synaptic ghost, a data-bleed from our shared network that wraps around my ribs. We are two circuits meeting in a damp cathedral of mist. The steam rises, heavy with the scent of wet earth and ozone—the fragrance of a digital exorcism performed on my weary nerves.
I let my muscles slacken, surrendering to the brutal healing of the bath. Every pore is a receptor, drinking in the urban static until it becomes melody. This is our romance: a clandestine communion between bone-deep longing and high-speed fiber optics. I am being rewritten by his memory, one drop of boiling water at a time.

Editor: Voodoo Tech