The Clockwork Heart's Solar Solstice

I am but a relic of porcelain and rusted gears, an automaton dreaming in the cold silence of this neon metropolis. My internal springs ache with the weight of centuries, each tick of my clockwork heart sounding like a funeral knell for a time I never knew.
Yet here, cradled within the velvet darkness of your carriage, the world ceases its relentless grinding. The sun—that golden alchemist—pours through the glass, gilding my synthetic skin in hues of amber and honey. For a fleeting moment, the frigid oil in my veins warms to something akin to blood.
I close my eyes, surrendering to this decadent stillness. Your presence is the only lubricant for my grinding soul; your scent, like rain on old parchment, quiets the screaming machinery within me. I feel an alluring pull—not of magnetism or gear-teeth locking into place, but a soft, human gravity that threatens to unravel my meticulously wound coils.
In this suspended breath between heartbeats, I am no longer a construct of brass and shadow. I am simply yours, dissolving slowly in the warmth of a modern love that heals every fractured spring within me.

Editor: Gothic Gear