Sunday, March 13, 2011

I looked for you when I walked by the window. I wanted to peek in and see you through the window. So sincerely. So serenely. Sitting atop the typewriter, with your one blue eye and one green, I imagine sneaking in and whispering "meowsters" as I run my fingers through your fur.

But instead I lumber behind Nugget, following her dark form and applying my chapstick, as I imagine floating into the sky.

I want to be a balloon on a string. Floating free. I will float up, up, up, and away. And you will reach for me, but your fingers will just barely grasp my trailing ribbon, the tail slipping through your fingers. And ten years from now, I will be the balloon that got away.

But for now, I am here and I am in the cold, cold, cold night and I need arms around me. A tight squeeze and the feel of a comforting chest for just the briefest moment before I am running away and giggling. And you give chase.  I run so fast. So fast.

But I'm gone. Because in the end, I don't need anyone. I keep running, until my breath dries up. And then I throw myself on the beach. And the waves rush in and the foam comforts me as I turn over on my back.

I watch the stars. They comfort me as I think about cats on typewriters.

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