My Cat

Living with a cat holds a bittersweet air of loneliness while not actually being alone;

boundaries are closely etched, a fine line between appropriate and not.

I can allow myself to unmask, admiration shimmering in my gaze,

your ginger splotches, outlined with black fur and the white fluffiness of your chest

that reminds me of the clouds that block the moon on a foggy night.

I’d kill for you and die for you,

but I suppose that’s a cliché when my arms are decorated with your claws.

A darkness pits its way into my heart at the thought of what you’re missing out on;

the soft, dewy scent of the aftermaths of rain, the sound of paw steps contrasting between concrete and the soft plush of the grass.

But I am proud for protecting you from the dangers of the real world.

You may never get to see the sunsetting, or feel the wind against your fur,

but I’m glad to know that you are safe enough to enjoy the comfort of snoozing on my plush bed.

Thoughts of reciprocation pop into my mom like bubble wrap,

do you miss me when I step out the door?

Do you worry and worry and worry until I step back in, home and safe?

I hope it isn’t selfish to wish that you care for me as much as I care for you,

my eldest, my protector, my companion.

I would devote my life to keeping you sheltered from the rain,

to scavenge for scraps of food to keep your tummy full.

Sparks of pride are held in my heart

at the sight of your fur falling and rising. You are safe.