he stalks about her house all day
awaiting her return.
I don’t blame him.
To sit curled and warm in
blankets that sing her scent
cuddled happily in the knowledge that
she will return—
and she will—
is almost as good as
watching her walk through that door.
I close my eyes
and she spills,
backhand walk overs
the Baha’i temple at night
half past late fall.
I pray to Gods I don’t know
that it’s not the last.
That encompassing dark blue
saturates, sprawling from the horizon line.
It contrasts beautifully with
the sheen that the headlights of my car
pull from her brown, falling hair.
She lets me stay
as close as her cat
and I’d love to pull citrus wisps from her fingertips
after such an appreciated color.
Soon she’ll run nimbly as planned,
and I’ll mourn like her father will.
We’ll watch from separate sills
as she skips knowingly away.
I’d lean down from above her,
laying in the colorful patches of her bed as
avant-garde indie juts forth desperately from speakers.
I could kiss so softly,
as only you deserve…
It only took a few cups of tea
to realize with a bitter, biting mourning
how I celebrate your crystalline structures
and every hair on your body.
Oh Gods, to be the cat upon that lap…
