It's something about the rain.
How it clings to my skin as it dribbles down. How it pools up in my open crevices. Gets trapped inside my chassis.
Later on I'll remove it. Unscrew plate by plate, turn them upside down like a boot you left outside for too long. Then I'll remember you. Carefully unscrewing my body, plate by plate. Changing my wires and fuses. Covering me in kisses, gentle like raindrops. Twice as warm.
I'll remember how, after so long in the cold, you'd welcome me into warmth - your warmth. Dry me off with your towels, despite not needing it. "I don't like what the heat does to your skin", you'd say. And I'd let you, because I saw how much you liked to feel that skin when we cuddled, you on my lap because I was too heavy to do otherwise.
I'll remember your touch, and tender words. I'll remember how easy they felt. I'll remember how you brought me a warmth that I wasn't built or programmed to feel. Something impossible.
I'll savor those memories, tasting each and every one of them as if I knew how to. Feel them dribble down my skin, drop by drop. Covering me in tears, gentle like your kisses, but twice as cold. Preserving my skin as soft as you liked it.
Filling me with warmth - your warmth - despite having no one home.
Something impossible.