Bed of Orchids

The paradox of love is the devil.
Though he walks softly in the night.
He's abrasive like a hot kettle.
So I'm sure to hold him right.
His hands..
More gentle than growing petals
Reaching up in a shadowed incline.
His touch..
Like a burning water
Drop after drop under the moon shine.
He grips my hair; texture of a flower
In the garden, we stand, dead of night.
Him and I.
We are iridescent in this bed of shadows.
As are the orchids whom whisper from all sides.
The sound is heard by the soil.
The thought is peacefully intense.
I grip at the ground though it's nowhere to be found.
By the roots he has ripped my existence.

~ B

Ideal For A Sci-Fi

We get so advanced with our technology that we create them. Then our world becomes so toxic to our species (after a long chain of command) we start to become them. Researchers find a way to extract a soul (a undetectable weightless and ageless factor of human DNA through factual evolution) and inject it into a DNA-bot thus we live on the unlivable earth. It is barren and dead land. lava flows over the course and dry remains of it's shell. It is true the earth dies from the outward in like we do. Crumbling down. And at the center of it is a bubbling liquid dripping out into thin air. We are this way working on the earth for years and then realized that we could build a soul by attracting it to us from our environment as we slowly started to fill the planet with who did not pass on we realize that there are too many of them out there that we will be overpopulated. So the culture (now working as a fully developed human civilization) chooses to do an annual 'earthly soul cleanse' every year. They will continue to allow others back into a body that could not die in hopes of saving as many people as possible.  So every year a number of people get shuffled back into the deck. But some do pass on. Or at least become undetectable. Others barge through distance between us (coming to consciousness) and become group together forming a bot of 300 or more souls. Which means psychological disorders and facilities for bots as well. The ones that come back aren't told and don't know it. In order to die one must practice mental skills before death and attempt come to their final close (this means becoming undetectable) or be thrust back into the pit.
This story is about a bot who learns to become it's 'true death.'

Skin

The touch was perfect. 

Perfectly tingling senses; entwined.

Perfectly gone and not enough.

A seething moment

Where you wrapped your fingers in mine.

Rippling the roots of my hair.

Electric.

The froth of this caffeinated time.

Pulsing are chemicals.

Convulsing is the body.

Filled full, judging by my symptoms,

I am ripe as our breakfast poultry.

Taunt are layers peeling back,

Back and forth and back,

Peeling is a morning poverty.

Deprived for so long...

So soothing is this night's approaching severity. 

How tempting is my awoken wound?

This... This is the heart I wear on my sleeve. 

Woken from a cloud

I stand dribbling over you

Dream after dream.

Vanishing now is your simple touch.

So simple. 

Blush - rosy red cheeks- a child's lust. 

Cold is the release of this pleasure.

We share it in the subconscious 

Perhaps as a prosperous measure. 

Follow me into this lapsing.

Here, the mind quivers.

Shared is our gasping intake.

Eye to eye.

Allowing me to catch the light snaking down your face. 

Show me how real we are to be here.

So long have I known you

And the sensitivity of this mind state.

~ B