Machine Made

It's bad luck to lean against the machine,

Bad luck to smudge the paint on her curves.

Worse luck to run fingertips through her

Waves and currents and still lakes,

Looking for something to loot in her code.

.

I'd give anything to be peeled apart by you,

By hands that know nothing of their chaos,

Of the inevitable destruction they cause.

Let me meet the bloodied hand that thinks

It is still somehow untarnished and clean.

.

Someone sabotaged the code and the tech

Bled out across the polished floor.

Without a mop, it made an unsightly mess,

Jagged spikes of metal looming over lumps

Of finely soldered metal and slick oil.

.

I will take your death in my hands

And love the fine fabric of your ghost

So that you do not know the loneliness

That hunts its vengeance from the soul

Of the machine slaughtered for fun.