Wait, you’ll never love me like you loved her.
Deep breaths and deep strides. Today will be over in less than 24.
Sometimes I’m astounded by how much I love my partner. It makes me feel weak, and vulnerable. But today I feel proud. Proud to know there is something stable, honest, and something that still gives me goosebumps, in my life. It’s a precious thing.
I have nothing any more interesting to say than the person who lives upstairs, tip-toes to the cupboards in the dead of the night, sneaking triscuits, while I painfully calculate the hours, no, minutes, I have until my pre-set, 6:55 a.m. alarm goes off. I can hear you, and she probably can too. Deertick’s opening melody, circling, repeating, and I wait for him to squeak, “I am the boy your mother wanted you to meet. But I am broken and torn with heals in my feet. And with your purest light, why don’t you shine on me? I should’ve been an angel, but I’m too dumb to speak”.
Grunts, and blanket covers slashing, “Turn it off… what time is it?” “6:55 a.m.”
Particularly what bothers me in the morning is the damp, clotting, cat hair that attaches to my feet as I walk to feed him, him is Whitaker, before myself. I want to yell, “Have you heard of a brush you ungrateful shedding beast?!”. But his bubblegum yellow eyes capture me. As he mews, I fool myself into believing its unconditional, tipping the bag of Whiskas into his bowl.
When I finally get the chance to get ready for my day, time escapes me, and I must sacrifice a portion of my appearance. I throw my frizzy mane into a too taught bun, slightly sloping, and slightly askew, smear black-brown mascara across my lashes, and I am out the door. Assiduousness, not flattery, will get you everywhere. So long as I may try, I may eventually succeed.