My social life is
basically filled with
cats.

A grey cat on my right leg
while I hold the book
and struggle to devour
the passages you've highlighted
and asked me to read
over and over and over.
I'm sorry I never did.

A black cat pawing my naturally
unkempt hair you used to smell
as you hold me near and hold me close
and echo in your low, husky voice
the promises of Keats and the
haunting beauty of Neil Gaiman.
Thank you for the cloves and rosemary and a crown of purple thistle.

A white cat on my side was scratching
that precise region on my skin you've burnt
when you've freed the dragonflies in the night
and assured me they would, in time, come back.
A hundred times I lit a candle near the window
and waited, love, but heard no song of wings and flutters.
Still, I curled under the blanket and nursed my wounded hope.

A calico cat handed me
an inquiry I've been dying to hear.
Does it ache? The cat prodded near and purred.
Everywhere, cat, I retorted. Everywhere, everywhere, everywhere.
Come close, please, and ask me those questions
under the flowering jasmine
and the waning moon.

I will answer you truthfully.