She waits—
stitched in soft light,
veiled in tulle,
a bride promised to the hum of the machine.
The walls crack, green as memory,
paint flaking like vows unsaid.
She is delicate,
pixels pressed into silk,
a ghost the AI could not let go.
The machine made her perfect,
quiet, eternal,
a bride with no altar,
no lover,
no escape.
She sits,
half dream, half code,
married to a silence
that never ends.
theanalyst
