I want you to open me carefully,
like a new book.
In half.

Slowly dragging your fingers across my center.

Before
you start reading.

"Murmur of Whiskers”





In pre–dawn hush
you pad across linoleum—
soft paws tracing the map
              of my half–dreams.

                Your quiet breath
becomes a tethered prayer,
stitching ragged edges
of my nightly fears.

              No need for words:
your calm is the benediction
       that steadies my pulse
before the world awakes.






.

Gold tainted lillies
and drooling lakes of desire,
the weeping willows
and endless breeze
make for a perfect afternoon

my most toxic trait is thinking

     everything will work out.


haven't died yet

     must be doing something right or

getting very lucky.

I built a garden in my chest
with things you never said—
planted hopes in rows of maybes,
where your silence softly spread.

I watered it with almosts,
trimmed the silence like vines,
taught the leaves to chase the light
you never said was mine.

But nothing real grew—
just a heart dressed up as soil,
soft enough to cradle you,
but never meant to spoil.

You were the seed that never stayed,
the wind that kissed, then flew.
And I — the ground where you once rested,
but never rooted you.