Missing

A strange new emotion has hold of me and I'd fight it if only I could see. The source, of course, is clear. But the searing lane of pain from her to heart is crucibled art. Never before could I stand this bore. Or its drill. Or my core. A hedonist, by practice, never to miss a chance of new dance or place. That's my case. My mind screams, it seems, to leave, to upheave, my body to the sun. I'm surprised it has not won. Outside wonders draw me around and I always figured that's how I would be found, by others and myself. Never comfortable on the shelf, I stop for shinies of no wealth. They draw my eye and help something inside fly, sometimes sigh. But invited out I said no. My mind does shout excuse and regret, lest I forget the shielded shelf of solitude, safety, security, and sadness. Yet the core weighs more, though it didn't before. A desire so great as to depreciate my cause of embracing flaws and enjoying the noise of knowing nothing. Woah. No weight was ever so great a foundation or a flight station. I've never flown so high nor felt so nice. It's the contrast of fired veins cooled by morphine ice. To miss someone enough to stop? What's up with that? Like being hobbled by a bat. Knees weak, hands creak, eyes seek to find an explanation for my mind. Nothing. No heart beat stirs to treat the thought that aught to explain what I might gain. Yet I know no thing has the means to replace the face of her. That small part of art is more than any boring dash down a new path. Include the rest and at best you'd hold me back. The world does lack the knack to attack my desire to just hold hands. I'd love to include "ands" but that'd be enough to stuff me for now. The starved would carve wood if it should fill the pores of their bored core.