Kitty

The clock has eaten all its numbers.

The sofa is growing a thick, grey pelt.

You left a single hair on the cushion,

a perfect, curved question.

Your water bowl dreams of a tongue

its skin has grown a blind, flat pupil.

My own shadow startles me,

puddling too thinly on the floor.

The book’s splayed spine

is gathering a soft, grey fur.

A mouth opens in the floorboard—

a dry, small O of a sound.

It is the ghost of a leap

that never lands.

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/1o2du6c/the_boy_who_blew_firemy_grandmothers/

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/1o2j3fn/leaving_the_room/