It is strange to note that for the past few nights, I have been awakened at 3:14 exactly by my large black cat.
The fleas. It was the fleas that did it, menaces. But then, even “pests” deserve a chance to live.
Cat eyes finding light, reflecting the good in me like a kind metaphor. We both have grown to love the dark, security blanket.
Ah, there it is. The reality that fear of witching hour superstition should be attached of abandoned fear of black cat superstition. But I will not cross beneath the ladder of life, triangle.
Interestingly, both of us must relieve our poor bladders at this time. He threatens to do it right on my Sesame Street purple carpet if I do not let him out.
They never meant to hurt anybody.
Lucky luck such a plucky fortune loudly saying, “Look at me!” Four-leaf clovers in his diamond eyes.
The quiet allows his large meow to echo ‘cross the house, “Hey!” I am grown jealous, and may be bitter, if not for love love love.
Maynard, love, where did your collar go? You will not allow it to be known that you are attached to me, for I belong to you, not the other way around.
A witch’s familiar he is/ gorgeous soul knows how I hate to be awakened by alarms.
Who would kill a sweet black cat? Maynard and ‘Tude and Xavier, such darlings.
I really must clip his nails, they are like eagle’s talons digging in my breasts as I hug him, just in case, releasing him to the dark void.
He must know it is the witching hour, sweet familiar. Together, we practice the dark art of poetry-making in the dark our art.
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pwsI like, m
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