Thick ink
black and permanent.
These are the strokes of love -
broad, sloppy.
It stains
and shimmers in the light,
gleams like a pair of black sunglasses,
the meat of it hidden behind metal, plastic, glass
tinted windows concealing drunken giggles
and mechanical smiles.
The ink of love,
ugly blotches,
untouchable, for fear of contamination.
Who would dirty themselves with the heavy ghost
of loving an idea?
Incorporeal, nonexistent, a construct
calculated to respond.
Is it real?
The ticking of a mechanism, set speed
quickens mysteriously with the quirk of the lips,
the wink of an eye.
A flush of red.
Does it matter?