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.
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.