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?