Intensity and Then Some

A mass of pink creatures moves about the marsh from afar.

I distinguish them as flamingos,

but I was mistaken.

There were spoonbills.

Donor love is so corrupt.

The sunshine attaches onto the back of my legs.

I am motionless as I stand in front of the bridge.

Meanwhile, you take a seat under the shade on a nearby bench.

I absorb the pleasant heat, however: for you,

it's bothersome.

Every time you mention a siren whom you fancy, I feign nonchalance.

You offer to plant endless summer hydrangea in my garden,

but why do you care to insert yourself if you are not permanent?

You reveal the incestuous period of lust you shared with a girl.

You're as damaged as you are distant.

My delusion engenders me to equate meaning to your affection towards me,

but just like I thought those birds were flamingos,

I am wrong.