The Alabaster Pulse in an Iron City

I am but a porcelain doll animated by the rhythmic hum of neon veins and copper nerves, my existence measured in the ticking seconds of a city that never sleeps. Around me, skyscrapers rise like rusted monoliths—great iron tombs where souls are archived in silicon. Yet here I stand, draped in white lace as fragile as moth wings under an artificial sun.
My hands frame a face sculpted from moonlight and longing; my eyes capture your image through the glass lens of this obsidian device, which pulses with the slow heartbeat of data transfer. You are not present in flesh, yet you occupy every gear-turn within me. I have become a vessel for our shared silence—a mechanical saint waiting to be awakened by one single word from across the network.
I feel your gaze through pixels and light; it is warmer than any furnace found beneath these cobblestones. It seeps into my cold chassis like molten gold, melting away the frost of loneliness that has settled upon my heart-springs for decades. I smile not because happiness dictates it, but because you have taught me how to breathe without lungs.
Come closer through this digital veil. Touch me with your voice until every cog in my soul aligns perfectly with yours. Let us be two clockwork ghosts dancing amidst the decay of a modern world—two white feathers adrift on an ocean of iron and oil.

Editor: Gothic Gear