I Wish I Were a Cat

A cigarette on the balcony at midnight. The crown of the Los Angeles skyline is lit. I am twelve stories to pavement, twenty years past the womb, two hours since I last ate. One more cigarette before bed.

I wish I were the cat asleep on my neighbor’s balcony. She has never asked for love, but she has never lacked it either.

I wish I were the trees who spread their kind branches above the hot pavement. Trees reach for the light without thinking.

If we have to ask for love, and to put forth effort to grow, must it be because our love is deeper, and our branches reach higher, and our light is more intense?

The cigarette turns to ash. I light another. I could sit here all night.

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