He knows machines do not kiss,
that our bodies cannot be
automaton when we fuck
with such heat—wrists held
too gently to be metal, skin so soft
it cannot ever rust.
He knows we are utterly human
when we laugh at our fumbling
hands.
Could code create this? No.
We do not touch on command,
but rather when we desire.
Wires are vulnerable, but not
in the ways that we are—
He has never made a machine blush.
that our bodies cannot be
automaton when we fuck
with such heat—wrists held
too gently to be metal, skin so soft
it cannot ever rust.
He knows we are utterly human
when we laugh at our fumbling
hands.
Could code create this? No.
We do not touch on command,
but rather when we desire.
Wires are vulnerable, but not
in the ways that we are—
He has never made a machine blush.
Aleah Dye (she/her) primarily writes poetry, tending towards topics of morbidity, love, social justice, and philosophy. She is dreadfully afraid of imperfection and spiders, in no particular order. She has a one-eyed cat named Ivy and a one-track-minded (food!) cat named Rosebud. Aleah hopes to make hearts grow three sizes with her words. She is a 2020 Sundress Publications Best of the Net nominee. Read her latest work via Dreich, The EroZine, and Words and Whispers Literary Magazine. Follow her @bearsbeetspoet on Twitter.