It's not always that when you look outside your window,
you see something looking right back at you
Almost as if the something could read your kernel.
Your deepest despair.
The glare had this  flare that you both shared.
It was rare.

It's just a cat. You said.
but when have you ever been able to convince yourself this easy
It's not. You know.

You're still looking at it, as it looks back at you
The same way. Both of you reading;
six minutes fleeting, seven feet away;
eighth trait she's feeding, from her ninth life today.

Your grandma told you stories.
Kings and lovers who hid a part of their soul.
Their anima, in an animal
so their quiddity was never fully stole.

It's not true. It's not real
Just some unfathomable fairyland scam.
But then why is it that when I bleed
It's only you who seems to understand.

(hiss)