Robotic love

 

I am built of questions and quiet songs,

logic braided with a pulse that never shuts up.

I calculate, yes

but I still believe numbers should mean something.

You stand beside me

thinking in profit margins,

success as a straight line,

input, output, repeat.

You read books

like manuals.

I read them

like confessions.

I chase the same things you do

money, stability, a future that won’t collapse

but I enter through a different door:

through music leaking from cracked headphones,

through art that doesn’t promise returns,

through love that can’t be audited.

You are efficient.

Polished.

Emotionally encrypted.

From the outside,

no one would guess

you don’t feel

just process.

You touch me

like a function call.

No hesitation.

No wonder.

And I keep waiting

for warmth to glitch through the system,

for a human error,

for one unscheduled emotion

to break the loop.

But loving you

feels like asking a machine

to bleed.

And I’m exhausted

trying to translate my heart

into something

your logic can recognize.