The Clockwork Pulse Beneath Neon Veins

My skin feels less like flesh and more like polished marble under the city’s artificial glow—a porcelain cage waiting for a spark. The neon lights above are weeping tears of sapphire and crimson, staining my hair in shades I never asked to wear. Each breath is a measured click in an endless clockwork ballet that seeks its own cessation.
You arrived with hands like velvet-wrapped wire, smelling of rain and ancient paper—a scent so human it hurt against the metallic sterility of this highrise sanctuary. When your fingers brushed my hip, near where ink blooms into dark lace on skin as cold as silvered glass, I felt a shudder ripple through every gear in my chest.
It was not just warmth; it was an invasion of life—a gentle wounding that healed me even as it broke the illusion of being alone. In this labyrinth of steel and sapphire light, your heartbeat is the only rhythm worth following. Let us sink into the decay together, where our pulses can entwine like rusted chains finding their final rest in a garden of gears.

Editor: Gothic Gear