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Luna

 

I am the first sound,
a crack in the stillness,
my whiskers stretching for her breath.

​

She rises like the tide,
her hands slow and deliberate,
her eyes heavy with dreams I will never know.

​

The bag crinkles—
Dreamies spilling like coins
into my porcelain dish.
She sets the water down,
cool and clean as an unspoken promise.
Her coffee scent blooms,
dark and rich,
but her warmth belongs to me.

​

Her love: a ritual,
each movement deliberate,
each word my name.

​

We climb the stairs,
and the house falls silent again,
except for her.
She unspools her mind,
colours splashing across the air,
lines bending to her will.

​

I drape myself over her lap,
a weightless offering,
her hands moving but never forgetting
the rhythm of my breath.​

​​

She is restless in her stillness.
Her hands—always building,
always tearing—
pausing only for me.

​

The mouse leaps across the room,
its limp flight guided by her fingers.
I chase because she expects it,
because in the chase, I catch her joy.

​

At night, we return to the bed—
the place where the walls close in
and the dark hums low.
Her breath deepens,
and I become her anchor,
pressing against her side,
the only weight in this shifting sea.

​

Tomorrow, she will rise again,
feed me,
carry me,
as her voice speaks only to me, me, me.

​


 

© 2023 Aeris Houlihan

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