Techno-sexual

I'm still stuck in the old motions you taught me, the tiny movements and mannerisms that ground their way into the material of my grey matter with the sequential passing of days. They say a human forms a habit in twenty-one days. Whoever they are. I don't think they know this kind of "habit," this mechanic repetition that anchors me to this plane of existence, this autopilot safeguard. Whatever. I don't need them. I've become something of a misanthrope anyway. Like every other morning for the past month, I sit on the porch with two mugs of coffee and wait for you to come by and pick me up, and just like every other day I'm late to work. I do