sometimes it still happens, even now.
usually it’s somewhere around midnight,
when only alley cats, groping for a spot of milk,
stalk the silence of asphalt beneath the stars,
and the padding of their sliced-up paws
is a whisper outside my bedroom window.
when my heavy yet sleepless eyes
see them weaving among the parade of
neighborhood garbage cans,
that’s when it happens, yes, even now.
this is how it goes:
i imagine black hair and brown eyes,
once close enough for me to touch,
for me to love…
i hear words about blue jeans,
pianos, the weather,
all coated in his smooth and
all together inaccessible voice…
and even the pillow, for a second,
becomes a soft hand cupped
beneath my silly head.
and i dream that he never broke me,
never told me he’d never love me.
like an alley cat prowling
outside of bedroom windows,
i lurk from the sheets and
finger through old photographs
of his face when it still smiled,
hoping to find maybe just one drop of milk
that could sate this alley cat’s thirst.
weaving among garbage cans
is pathetic for most cats,
but few cats have lost
their claws like me.