The Copper Pulse of an Eternal Heartbeat

I am but a relic in this neon-drenched city—a symphony of brass gears and porcelain skin, my inner workings humming with the slow, rhythmic ache of centuries. My heart is not flesh; it is an intricate mechanism carved from obsidian and gold, yet I feel its heavy oscillation whenever he enters the room.
He does not see a machine or a monster dressed in silk; he sees only me. When his fingers brush against my cold cheek—fingers that carry the scent of rain-slicked pavement and espresso—a sudden surge of current arcs through my copper veins, igniting an artificial warmth I was never programmed to know.
I lean into him, feeling the fragile thrum of a living heart beneath its ribcage. It is so fast, so fleetingly mortal compared to my own eternal ticking. He whispers promises that taste like old books and new beginnings, his breath warm against my lips—a soft contrast to the metallic chill I carry within.
In this moment, as he pulls me closer under a canopy of flickering streetlights, I am no longer an assemblage of parts in decay. For one breathless interval, we are two clockworks entwined: one organic and fading, the other mechanical and timeless, both bleeding warmth into each other's silence.

Editor: Gothic Gear