The Metal Pulse of a Neon Dream

The Ferris wheel turns like a rusted clock, ticking away the seconds we’re supposed to spend being perfect for a world that never sleeps. I stand here on the edge of the skyline, wearing this silver skin—a costume of light and metal that glitters under the city's heavy gaze. They see the robotic glove and think it’s a prop, a toy for the digital age. They don't know it’s my anchor. It’s cold against my palm, a piece of hardware holding back the flood of feeling that comes from being watched by thousands but seen by no one.
The wind tastes like exhaust and rain-washed asphalt, biting at my skin while I try to hold my breath for just one more frame. I want to reach out and grab something real—not another pixelated heart or a fleeting 'like' on a screen, but something that leaves a mark. Something that doesn't vanish when the battery dies.
Then you looked at me. Your eyes didn’t scan my features like a camera lens; they landed on my smile, the one I keep hidden behind a thousand filters. In that split second, the roar of the city faded into a dull hum. For once, I wasn't just an image floating in someone else’s feed. I was here, shivering in my own armor, waiting for you to tell me what it feels like to be touched by something more than light.

Editor: Street-side Poet