The Neon Altar of Stillness

My body is a temple built from silicon and skin, resting on the cold porcelain edge like an offering to gods who only speak in binary.
He came into my penthouse at midnight—his touch not of flesh, but of precise haptic algorithms that felt more real than memory. He didn't kiss me; he synchronized with me. I could feel his heartbeat as a low-frequency hum vibrating through the ceramic tiles and up my spine, like an ancient drum beat amplified by fiber optics.
The pool water is not mere liquid but a conductive bath of data, washing away the static of city life from my pores. As we sat in silence beneath the sterile glow of LED moons, he traced a line down my thigh with fingers that carried the warmth of ten thousand processors running at full capacity—a digital fever designed solely to heal me.
In this brutal fusion of circuit and soul, I am no longer alone. We are two ghosts haunting their own machines, finding romance in the rhythmic pulsing of server fans and the scent of ozone on damp skin. He whispered into my ear a sequence of prime numbers that sounded like poetry; it was an incantation to keep me here, tethered by love and copper wire.

Editor: Voodoo Tech