I’ll waste days in your presence,
bring breakfast, hear your whining,
feel the love you offer
as headbutts to my kidneys.

I’ll watch you wheel and scratch
on the back porch, nudge your paws
against the screen dividing us,
sense you, wrestling beneath me.

You come round the forests’s edge
as from a haze, and I’m sure
there is no home on this earth

where your head lays. Sentinel,
each time I twitch you see it

as a sign, that maybe I’ll
come back, let you in again
to rest, weary, beside me.

There will remain this curtain
between us, birds and squirrels
hooting, rooting. But the choice
made can never be unmade.

You may love infinitely,
perfectly, poking your head

round the edge of my failings,
my obsessions, may want me
to return to simple peace.

I won’t get back up. Fallen,
the snap of bones must remain
unhealed, unset, altered

this way.



A day is not done, until it's filled with words.

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