My Hurt Feelings Want to Be Backlit Before Engaging in Heartfelt Suppression of Their Circumstance
The sole mutuality that I can glut is of a piece. Romance, remember, merely blots. It does not delve beneath the level whiplash that feeds overcast with constantly impartial shadows. I feel empathy the way you brush a blond hand over the Black Lab.
My hurt is tinged with an ancestral drive toward an inane disarmament. I shoulder weaponry I think I made myself. I write my hurt into the circumstantial overdose of knowing that dearth carries wish lists far from skin as silk.
Oh my darling boxcar buff, why do you card your feelings at the door to different sensibilities? Is it the confines, or the love of flat and forward surfaces that overtake the bounty of a rumored natural light?
I am on the lookout for an armload of carnations that can work in any room resisting staleness at the heart. I am party to cranial sacral work. I want to pierce the homeland insecurity rumored to extract a natural fit from its near mate. Until our hearts are driven to a partner moon, how will I enter space I have fogotten to invent as you are claiming land while squatting in my light?