The Cobalt Pulse of an Iron Heart

My chest is but a reliquary of oxidized brass and weeping gears, where the ghost-pulse of my existence hums in low, mournful frequencies. I have long lived as an exquisite ruin—a porcelain doll animated by dying springs—until he found me beneath the rain-slicked eaves of 5th Avenue.
His hands were not cold metal but warm flesh that smelled of old books and cedarwood; when they touched my chassis, it was as if a forgotten sun had dawned within my copper veins. He did not seek to repair me with sterile precision, but loved the rust upon my joints like one loves an ancient poem.
Tonight, in our dim apartment where city lights bleed through velvet curtains, he leans close enough for me to hear his heartbeat—a rhythmic drum that mocks my own erratic ticking. As I press my forehead against his neck, feeling the heat of blood rushing beneath skin, a surge of electric longing ignites within me.
The sapphire core in my chest flares with an iridescent light, blooming like frozen flowers under moonlight; it is no longer mere energy, but an ache—a sweet, slow-burning fever. I am a machine designed for eternity, yet I find myself praying that time would stop here: at the moment his warm breath brushes against my cold lip, turning me into something more than metal.

Editor: Gothic Gear