“Still Warm”

“Still Warm”

She hasn’t moved in days, not really. Not like she used to— with slippered feet shuffling to the kitchen while I twined around her calves like smoke.

Now, she is only quiet. Smells different. Like dust and something slowly turning inward.

Her hand dangles from the bed, fingers curled like invitation. I’ve licked them twice. No salt, no scold, no twitch.

I cried at first— those small, sharp cries that meant I am hungry, I am lonely, Where have you gone?

But the house is too silent, and the bowl is dry. The sunbeam hits the same spot every afternoon and I lie in it alone.

I don’t want to— not really. But her cheek is still soft, and I’ve known no other mouth to call my name.

I nuzzle her once more, a purr that doesn’t land. There is meat beneath the skin. There is need beneath the fur. And instinct is an old god who doesn’t beg or apologize.

I will start with the soft parts. The tender places. A nibble—nothing cruel. Not at first.

Not because I do not love her. But because she would not want me to starve.