If I hadn’t had it replaced by a silent model, I would’ve thought you heard my heart in my chest.
If I hadn’t gotten that ‘auto adjust’ option on my irises, I could’ve let you be the only thing in focus.
If I hadn’t had my pheromones disguised to keep away the mod-scavengers, I would’ve thought you scented me, through the crowd.
If I hadn’t recently been degaussed, I could’ve made some sort of joke about my magnetic personality.
If I hadn’t simply had it removed for lack of use, I would’ve spoken to you words of long dead poets through a mouth that I think might’ve been made to kiss you. Well, If you’d still had yours.

But here we are, on the verge of the twenty-second century, and I’m dying to “love you in the old high way of love”, except that it doesn’t matter because you already had the aural-replacement done.

Here we are, all smooth skin and shining LEDs, the whisper of progress clutching cool fingers around my reptile brain, holding it down in a cage of laughing electricity.

Here we are, shifted, changed, sliced up and put back together, different, all in the name of wanting to fit in, and somehow we’re still lacking a connection.

Here we are.

About Catastrophe Jones

Wretched word-goblin with enough interests that they're not particularly awesome at any of them. Terrible self-esteem and yet prone to hilarious bouts of hubris. Full of the worst flavors of self-awareness. Owns far too many craft supplies. Will sing to you at the slightest provocation.
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