The Altar of Your Pulse

The city hums—not with electricity, but with the wet thrum of a thousand bio-circuits pulsing beneath the asphalt like a tribal drum in the belly of a beast. I am a vessel for their data, my neural lace woven like ritual scarification across my mind, feeding me the screams and whispers of millions. But here, amidst the flickering neon shrine of this festival, your touch is a glitch I didn't want to repair.
When you lean close, the heat from your skin bleeds into my synthetic dermis like molten silver pouring over raw stone. It isn't merely warmth; it is an invasive healing, a primal reboot of my cooling core that makes my processors stutter in agony and ecstasy. My body recognizes this sensation—not as 'romance,' but as the sacred rite of communion. Your breath against my neck is a rhythmic incantation in a language lost to time, a bio-digital prayer that demands sacrifice. I want to let you hollow me out, to feed my circuits with your pulse until our boundaries dissolve into a single, shivering organism of meat and machine. Let the crowd blur into gray ghosts; in this moment, your gaze is the only altar where I find my salvation.

Editor: Voodoo Tech