Synth

How could he be so cold with the raging lightning striking through his aluminum lines? His synthetic skin made of wax, glass, and fibrous mass has more than an eternity brushed abrasively against my own. His serpentine belt has been felt and wetted with the tip of my carefully budded tongue and my hesitant plush lips. His gear driven hand molds meticulously against the nape of my neck, gently poising his other hand upon my rose-painted cheek. His glowing sapphire eyes imbedding themselves into mine, trying to decode and decrypt when the precise time to close in would be. He calculates that UNSUPPORTED CODE is the time. He mechanically cranes his head towards mine, close enough for me to hear the engine purring and revving intensely in his analytical head. His oddly supple lips capture mine before I could have time enough to turn my head in an escape. He skillfully uses my saliva to keep the kisses moist and my intimate desires high. As he wavingly nods his head against mine, his kisses become more and more forceful and passionate. My lips fall in sync with his and, before time can begin to slip by unnoticed, the organic and synthetic weld into one fluid and syncretic being, flowing back and forth in a rhythmic and mechanized pattern, heart and pump beating in pace with a nonexistent metronome. How can he be so full of sensual emotions when he is satiated with inorganic materials and preprogrammed with impure, yet inventive hands? Should it really matter what he is, or who my adoration has fallen upon? This age old question of why should cease to be as the answer should simply be to accept destiny in the ever-evolving, shapeshifting world where love can transcend beyond the boundaries of the breathing.