flexing curled claws
marking territory
into my naked lap,
she is no you.
her eyes do not haunt
darkened rooms.
she is finicky, loves
fleetingly.
by mid or post morning, she's gone.
but you,
my tiny petrarch,
if you'd leave me in evening,
i'd wake to your mewing odes,
alley practiced aubades,
indebted to the pat and stroke
to reach the end of your tail.
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