Love is a cat,
the cuteness
and the claws,
or the way it rubs itself
into your life
not out of necessity:
it’s a matter of appetite,
mostly,
in the beginning.

Love must be a cat,
the elegance of
subtlety,
a passing shadow against past walls
in the quiet of the stars,
chasing
or being chased.

Love is surely a cat so,
when it fails,
when it falls,
breaking something
on impact,
******* up big
time
trying to catch some young
bird,
it should not look
to us
as tragic,
but merely
amusing -
but it is then
we must remember:
the wounds will be
ours
to lick.

From a certain distance,
we still laugh:
or pretend
that we do.