Quietly the arms of a creation reaches forward..

Quietly the arms of a creation reaches
forward amidst a room thrust into the
silence of existence. Each of its bones
working in unison, raising its arms and
placing its metallic hands into another's-
touching but with no spark of emotion.
Quickly I realize that my peach arms are
so still that even I feel robotic...
Through the mist of perfection I am sending
messages of hope into its grey telescopic eyes,
from my own. The next person whispers rumours
of humanity.
I wait,
to hold its lonely armoured body.
I stretch,
to hold its fingertips and fold its stiff hands into
my own.
Begging to install some love.