Creeply

To a friend,

Where is the moon tonight? It took solitude behind a shade of clouds, unwilling to dance, but a familiar friend joined me. The distant jingle of my brother’s collar serenaded my steps. As I inched closer to understanding her the feline acknowledge me. I now understand a cat’s flea. Shaken by the world and the noises of the night, when the moon is not there to guide one’s dance, brothers sit on the street corner to discuss the specifics of fleeing. The cat and I talked for hours about the moon which abandoned us, unknowing when it would return. I wait for her every night, among the cats, hoping she might realize I am writing to her.

Be it I flea this desolate dusk, she would know my obsession only by these words. The felines and I are the company who listen to advice struck by the moon at night. Our solemn fraternity brushes over cement curbs waiting for that specific female. Be it I stay with her, with my obsession, the cat may never be my brother. What am I then if I do not, other than a dog?

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