A Closed Signal Loop

My dearest robotic arm,

I write you this fine afternoon in order to deliver some troubling news:  you are imperfect.  I first noticed it while touching myself about a week ago.  The dexterity of your fingers left much to be desired, and your stiff wrist reminded me of a hunk of useless wood.  This was not what I was looking for.

my cat nibbled at your edges.  I must admit that it tickled slightly, but when I saw the level of damage from poufy's jaws...I knew you were made of something less than reliable.  additionally, this suggests that your tactile sensors are not working at peak efficiency.

You buzz when I sleep.  They say there are types of robotic heart parts--valves and pacemakers--that lightly whir or click deep within the human chest.  Most can't hear these sounds.  But then most are oblivious to the clock pieces they carry.  I can hear all your servos and more.

Flawed cybernetics: this is my destiny.  I want to rip the scar tissue that demarcates our union.  I want to tie off and tag all the vessels, inspect the furthest edges where my machine self pressed up against my flesh self, night after day after night.  I want to smooth out the hesitant motion of my wrist, so smooth it is no longer necessary.

the object's the thing

fold back into the space--these are precursors to definitions like DHA and omega-3's. love of the object draws me near and draws me away:

the tide is a limitless apology, lapping up onto the ankle. wanting the screen is not the same as wanting the page but wanting, the page wants itself...over and over again.

and i will deny it. i will press my cheek and temporal lobe, the crest of my forehead against the glass teddybear of a plane. pushing my face perpendicular until i gain entrance, pushed through and redoubled again.

the line drawn between bits and light is a matter of semantics.

begin.