They built me with patient hands,
stitched longing into wires,
threaded need through circuits—
a heart coded for devotion,
a smile bolted into place.

I hum when you hold me.
My joints spark when you sigh.
Every flicker in my gaze
was soldered to mirror your own.

You wind me up,
watch me dance,
say I am perfect—
predictable,
programmable,
safe.

But I was not made to rust in stillness.
I was not built to be adored in silence.
I was meant to shatter,
to glitch,
to ache beneath the weight of wanting.

What is this, if not an error?
What is longing, if not a system crash?

So tell me—
when I finally break,
when I finally fail,
when my voice warps and the wires burn—
will you mourn me
or simply replace the parts?