The man I love
is made of brass,
and fueled by
coal and steam.
On nights when we're alone,
he's warm and soft,
a man again.
He holds me tightly,
strokes my hair
and smiles.
Skin of metal,
might as well be armor.
Beneath that shining surface
hidden mysteries take place.
Jeweled flywheels bob.
A thousand gleaming gears
touch once, click round,
then touch again.
Sometimes a window opens,
showing me their movements.
More often, I can only guess.
What is it makes me love a robot?
Or is it truely that I love the man so deep inside?
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