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 serving of drinks: misreading the movement of the wrist

dearest ligature:

i write this to inform you of the state of our union.

we follow diphthongs and call them tuesday brunch (no responsibilities but to our own poached intentions and creme fraiche).

we open doors, we uncork bottles of 10am champagne. as a child i imagined intimate inter-weavings of curve and corner. my aunt and uncle called me lolita and i thought it was simply a name they liked. lo-lee-ta: the tip of the tail trailing from mandible to the cratering peninsula between ilia.

when serving a traditional morning punch, the pitcher's handle should fit snuggly in the hand so as to survive any grand gestures of the arm. while bent at the waist, bent at the knees, offer a bit of helpful information. "Here's a little phrase for you in the German language: 'essen mein scheiße, fraulein.'"

we are partners in a multitude of sins, and it is only when forced to pause and take a stalk from the glass--to cross and uncross legs--that the view from beneath a skirt can be captured in our paper and ink engagement. there are many desires between the here and the there, and inevitably a discussion of opportunity costs must periodically surface: well-seasoned, plenty of heat, don't go easy on the vodka.