WHERE A WARM BODY SLEEPS
It is not her. It is not them. It is not
any of those I have loved or still
love. Or who have loved me.
Been raised by me.
Been adored by me.
Held by me.
Kissed.
Dreamed about.
Cried over.
It is not any human whatsoever
who sleeps beneath this small
roof.
It is my cat, in her black shiny
coat, with her mysterious eyes.
It is my cat that sleeps somewhere
in this small apartment in the dark
night, my cat who does her best
to break my terrible loneliness.