Scratch.
Scratch.
Scratch.
I arrive at your silence
like a rain-damp alley cat
pressing its ribs against a stranger’s porch,
clawing pale little markings into the wood
just to prove
something living is still outside.
Inside, perhaps the television glows amber.
Perhaps laughter spills from your mouth
for everyone except me.
Perhaps you are asleep again,
curled deep in your cavernous den
like some winter-buried bear
dreaming through entire afternoons
while my messages fossilize beneath your screen.
You answer in scraps.
Pebbles.
Bottle caps.
A few exhausted phrases tossed down the stairwell.
“goodnight”
“im tired”
“my stomach hurts”
Nothing about the weather of your heart.
Nothing about whether you missed me too.
Meanwhile,
I hand you entire bouquets of myself.
I tell you where I vanished during the day,
what song made my throat ache,
how the sky looked bruised lavender
above the parking lot,
how I thought of you
every single hour
like a prayer bead slipping through nervous fingers.
Scratch.
Scratch.
Paw.
Now the claws retract.
Now I am only nudging the door
with velvet feet,
careful not to seem needy,
careful not to sound wounded,
careful not to apologize too much
because even my remorse
has become unbearable to you.
Do you know how difficult it is
to replace a reflex stitched into childhood?
“I’m sorry.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I’m sorry.”
The phrase hangs from me
like wet laundry.
You say it irritates you,
yet I was raised inside apology
the way some children are raised inside ritual.
So I begin scavenging for gentler language,
searching dictionaries at midnight
for synonyms soft enough
not to make you leave.
Still, the distance between us sours.
Only a month and eighteen days,
and already the warmth is thinning.
A trivial stretch of highway
for somebody less frightened than me.
If I still trusted vehicles
the way rivers trust bridges,
I think I would have driven to your doorstep already,
gas station coffee trembling in the cupholder,
heart knocking like loose machinery.
Instead,
I remain here,
pacing the perimeter of your absence.
Paw.
Paw.
Paw.
Sometimes I think
I was merely your complimentary trial period.
A month and eighteen days
before novelty expired.
Now I picture myself
among alley vermin and overturned trash bins,
another stray thing blinking beneath neon,
licking old affection from rusted cans.
And still, embarrassingly,
I adore you.
I adore you enough
to memorize the rhythm of your exhaustion.
Enough to notice
when your replies lose warmth
degree by degree
like tea abandoned on a windowsill.
You tell me your griefs freely.
I cradle them carefully.
I learn the anatomy of your bad nights,
the ache in your stomach,
the ghosts clawing through your head.
But when I unfold my own bruises,
you close like shutters.
Suddenly feelings are “too much.”
Suddenly vulnerability is “drama.”
Suddenly my storms become inconvenient weather.
So I swallow myself whole.
Meow.
Meow.
Meow.
The sound is quieter now.
Thin as steam escaping a kettle.
I keep trying to stitch the severance together
with trembling little threads:
another message,
another joke,
another cautious confession.
But affection cannot survive
on one pulse alone.
Even lanterns extinguish
when only one hand shields the flame.
Meow.
Cry.
Cry.
At night,
when your reply finally arrives
like a train limping through fog at 3 a.m.,
I stare at the screen’s ghostly glow
and wonder
how somebody can occupy my thoughts so completely
while I drift through theirs
like passing static.
Maybe this is the humiliating truth of longing:
one person builds homes from conversation,
the other leaves muddy footprints through the aisle.
And yet,
despite the exhaustion crusting beneath my eyes,
despite the ache of speaking into locked rooms,
some damaged and devoted part of me
still waits at your door.
Not clawing anymore.
Just sitting there quietly
beneath the porch light,
tail curled around my feet,
hoping the **** will finally turn.
…
…
…
Until then,
I will gather my small remaining warmth
like spilled beads from the carpet.
I will try a little longer.
Not forever.
Just long enough
to know I loved you honestly.
And if the silence keeps widening,
if your distance continues blooming
like mold across forgotten fruit,
then eventually
I will have to leave your doorstep behind.
Not because I stopped caring.
Because even stray cats learn
which houses will never let them in.
May 20
May 20, 2026 at 5:17 PM UTC
Scratch.
Scratch.
Scratch.
I arrive at your silence
like a rain-damp alley cat
pressing its ribs against a stranger’s porch,
clawing pale little markings into the wood
just to prove
something living is still outside.
Inside, perhaps the television glows amber.
Perhaps laughter spills from your mouth
for everyone except me.
Perhaps you are asleep again,
curled deep in your cavernous den
like some winter-buried bear
dreaming through entire afternoons
while my messages fossilize beneath your screen.
You answer in scraps.
Pebbles.
Bottle caps.
A few exhausted phrases tossed down the stairwell.
“goodnight”
“im tired”
“my stomach hurts”
Nothing about the weather of your heart.
Nothing about whether you missed me too.
Meanwhile,
I hand you entire bouquets of myself.
I tell you where I vanished during the day,
what song made my throat ache,
how the sky looked bruised lavender
above the parking lot,
how I thought of you
every single hour
like a prayer bead slipping through nervous fingers.
Scratch.
Scratch.
Paw.
Now the claws retract.
Now I am only nudging the door
with velvet feet,
careful not to seem needy,
careful not to sound wounded,
careful not to apologize too much
because even my remorse
has become unbearable to you.
Do you know how difficult it is
to replace a reflex stitched into childhood?
“I’m sorry.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I’m sorry.”
The phrase hangs from me
like wet laundry.
You say it irritates you,
yet I was raised inside apology
the way some children are raised inside ritual.
So I begin scavenging for gentler language,
searching dictionaries at midnight
for synonyms soft enough
not to make you leave.
Still, the distance between us sours.
Only a month and eighteen days,
and already the warmth is thinning.
A trivial stretch of highway
for somebody less frightened than me.
If I still trusted vehicles
the way rivers trust bridges,
I think I would have driven to your doorstep already,
gas station coffee trembling in the cupholder,
heart knocking like loose machinery.
Instead,
I remain here,
pacing the perimeter of your absence.
Paw.
Paw.
Paw.
Sometimes I think
I was merely your complimentary trial period.
A month and eighteen days
before novelty expired.
Now I picture myself
among alley vermin and overturned trash bins,
another stray thing blinking beneath neon,
licking old affection from rusted cans.
And still, embarrassingly,
I adore you.
I adore you enough
to memorize the rhythm of your exhaustion.
Enough to notice
when your replies lose warmth
degree by degree
like tea abandoned on a windowsill.
You tell me your griefs freely.
I cradle them carefully.
I learn the anatomy of your bad nights,
the ache in your stomach,
the ghosts clawing through your head.
But when I unfold my own bruises,
you close like shutters.
Suddenly feelings are “too much.”
Suddenly vulnerability is “drama.”
Suddenly my storms become inconvenient weather.
So I swallow myself whole.
Meow.
Meow.
Meow.
The sound is quieter now.
Thin as steam escaping a kettle.
I keep trying to stitch the severance together
with trembling little threads:
another message,
another joke,
another cautious confession.
But affection cannot survive
on one pulse alone.
Even lanterns extinguish
when only one hand shields the flame.
Meow.
Cry.
Cry.
At night,
when your reply finally arrives
like a train limping through fog at 3 a.m.,
I stare at the screen’s ghostly glow
and wonder
how somebody can occupy my thoughts so completely
while I drift through theirs
like passing static.
Maybe this is the humiliating truth of longing:
one person builds homes from conversation,
the other leaves muddy footprints through the aisle.
And yet,
despite the exhaustion crusting beneath my eyes,
despite the ache of speaking into locked rooms,
some damaged and devoted part of me
still waits at your door.
Not clawing anymore.
Just sitting there quietly
beneath the porch light,
tail curled around my feet,
hoping the **** will finally turn.
…
…
…
Until then,
I will gather my small remaining warmth
like spilled beads from the carpet.
I will try a little longer.
Not forever.
Just long enough
to know I loved you honestly.
And if the silence keeps widening,
if your distance continues blooming
like mold across forgotten fruit,
then eventually
I will have to leave your doorstep behind.
Not because I stopped caring.
Because even stray cats learn
which houses will never let them in.
