When I set you in motion
I accidentally fixed the furrow in your brow
so it deepens and
forms an acute downward angle
whenever you worry about your future.
And your right eye blinks twice,
clicking like a camera shutter,
when you tell a lie
(although you don't often, since
I built you with a guilty conscience).
Your vertebrae rattle
when you straighten up
because you're listening intently
and your pupils
pulse rhythmically
emitting a low frequency throbbing
when you're in love.
Your multitude of whirrs and tics
give you away every time so that
I always know
what you're thinking.
I could probably stand that, except
you think, then stare expectantly at me
waiting for my necessary
voice command.
Once you actually asked permission
to run away
with that trashy glass ballerina
you'd been eyeing wistfully
from across the room.
I, of course, said no
then immediately resented you for obeying
and for making
the scratched record noise
that always indicates disappointment.
I've found myself secretly hoping
you spontaneously combust
for variety's sake.