Quick Widow
In the darkest hour, you cry out,
“He’s dead!”
And commence that frantic chant,
fumbling for the light through a dreamy grog
to see the cat squinting up at us,
blinking, orange, and annoyed,
wondering why we disturb the still, smooth silk of his sleep.
Catching our breath,
we shuffle across the cold bathroom tiles and quietly try to laugh it off,
then scratch the fuzz between his ears
as we climb back into bed.
Your breaths deepen so quickly,
but I lay there all night long,
eyes wide open to the ceiling and arms crossed,
listening through the dark for your heartbeat.
HMMooreNiver
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