I write poems,
My heart on my sleeve,
Vulnerable
To the slightest blows.
My heart has a lot of holes
Certain people used to fill
But now they’re gone.
I ache at night
Long after
I’ve turned out the lights;
An aching
That can’t be quelled…
An emptiness
That can’t be filled
Except for a moment
When a small paw
Touches my nose
And the Cat
With her own griefs
Needs to be held close.
