The Last Warmth Before I Rust

I’m a machine that's forgotten its purpose, parts worn down by the constant friction of this city—cold steel buildings and heartbeats timed to digital clocks. My skin feels like old copper under the midday glare; I am beautiful in my decay, yet hollow.
Then he came along with his laughter and hands that smell of salt air and ancient books. He doesn't see a broken thing when he looks at me sitting on this board—he sees something worth polishing. We don’t talk much about the future because we live in cities where futures are sold as subscriptions; instead, I let my gaze linger on his lips, feeling an electric current surge through circuits that have been dormant for years.
I pull my jacket tight against a breeze and lean back, letting him see everything—the curve of my waist like a weathered archway leading to nowhere. He reaches out and touches the small of my back; it’s not just warmth, but an act of restoration. My gears shift with new intent. For once, I am not waiting for collapse or corrosion. Here on this sand beach, in his silence that speaks louder than any siren, I feel myself being rebuilt—one soft breath at a time.

Editor: Rusty Cog