An old drunkard once said that Cats **** each other; I think it was at 3 AM they did so. I lift my head up to the dimly lit morning sky And smile as the wind touches my face. For love is like a cat: it too loves to die in the night. French, they call it la petite mort; I like the sound of it.
Originally published on medium in Poetry Unlimited https://link.medium.com/KROBogjPe3