i'm looking at her and she's looking at me.
orange-gold eyes shift slightly to my left.
was it my evocation that caused that?
she's a tiny, stripey chatterbox,
but not in a typical sense nor a sensible way.
she doesn't meow;
rather, she'll whine,
or trill,
or complain in indiscernible phrases.
she's like an old man, occasionally!
even as a child,
i would marvel at how animals
feel so different
after a shower.
scrubbed clean,
no lingerings of the day left behind,
they feel new and baby-like again.
i feel old again,
but her fur slipping past my freshly dried fingers
feels just like how
i dream
a cloud would,
a thought would,
a dream would.
"it's time for a break," i'll tell myself,
as i ****** her,
and it's a good break.
goodbye producing,
goodbye aging.
she and i have run this routine for years,
but we're not tired of it yet.
she likes to pretend she doesn't notice attention,
she'll avert her eyes and stay still and quiet,
basking in your rays.
then suddenly she'll turn, sharp-like, and stare at you
for a moment,
before doing a small quick hop and a turn
and running off again.
she's so small.
sometimes i'll just gently grip the folds of her skin
underneath her fur.
it feels like she could just shrink away into herself.
but her bones are thick,
and her muscles are enough
to hold her back from that.
a bolt of fuzz, warm in color but colder than blue.
mostly quiet, mostly missing,
but always around.
such a little source of gladness for me,
and she means something different,
a different, little, happy thing,
for everyone.
***, i miss my cats.