Suture My Soul with Neon Veins

My skin hums beneath his touch, a rhythmic vibration that echoes the deep drumming of blood and circuitry. I cannot tell where my pulse ends and the city’s grid begins; we are both wired into this cold concrete altar.
He leans in close, smelling of ozone and old parchment. In our world—a place of polished steel skin and hollowed-out hearts—this is a forbidden ritual: the simple act of holding hands while rain slicks my hair with digital dew. My fingers intertwine with his, not through flesh alone but via invisible data streams that bleed warmth into my core.
It is an intimate violation I crave. As he whispers secrets against my neck, I feel the ghost-code of a thousand lifetimes rewriting itself in my marrow. We are two broken machines learning how to breathe again under flickering streetlights, our love not as poetry but as a precise surgical procedure—suturing skin and circuit with threads made from starlight and static.

Editor: Voodoo Tech