We circle our graves
poorly.
Without purpose or poise.
As the vultures
circle our bodies,
more knowing and keen.
As if the gods
gave them insight
as to when we'll fall
into a heap
of ourselves,
when the spiral tightens.

Like a cat
crouching low;
stalking.
Not because
it's hungry,
but because
it needs to prey.
The tiny movements
drive them mad.

I've never felt more alone
then I do
on those nights
when I lay awake
watching you sleep.
The tiny movements of your chest
as it rises
and lowers again.
The predator inside me
bristles with curiosity.
The same madness
that overcame the cat.
And I distantly think,
I know now what drives them.

I must have startled you
because you awoke
and turned on your side,
cracked eyes searching,
looking concerned
and frightened.

When she asks,
"Is something wrong?"
I think,
"Oh yes, it's more terrible than ever."
but say,
"No, it's nothing."
But it certainly is
something.

She kind of laughs
like we do
when nothing is funny.
Which is fine.

Because it isn't.