There’s something to be said
about a boy who doesn’t want
a heart. No wedding bells in the air,
no weekend outings planned, no hand holding after sex, no the day-after- phone calls expected, no date nights ever —
He says he does not do relationship.
In her mind, everything is
a relationship: between a flower and a bee,
between the sun and the chlorophyll,
between the blade of grass and the poet,
the watering hole and the bison,
the mosquito and the sweat drop resting on the forehead.
She doesn’t have to love him or keep him. But she does.
He never looks at her when she flies
out of his door without knowing
when, where, how, or if
their next time will exist.
She likes knowing his secrets
because secrets are like love,
deep dark well of water only the chosen can access.
Like how she’s the one who knows
he lost his heart eight years ago.
Her guess is it was never
fully formed since he was created.
He calls her his and she calls him hers
but the possessives are meaningless
when they are both robots;
their meticulous circuitry, iron bones, soft latex skin, square jaws and wired sensory organs always craving for touch.