to Diablo, who has recently died

just when I thought
the tide of grief was receding, it
rushes in again. fuck. you
know how much I loved you, right?
please tell me you did. I couldn’t
bear it if I thought you died
not knowing.

I’m sorry that I wasn’t much use
to you at the end. I learned
something about myself and how
I’m really not much good with
the dying. you were a great little
guy, with a huge heart. everyone
who ever knew you
loved you. you tried to go home
with every delivery guy.

you were often naughty, and
that made you wonderful. you
were more like a dog
then a cat, which I must admit
I often found annoying. but you
were so smart, and so human;
I swear you understood
every word I said.

you chose me
that day 15 years ago, and
I never regretted it.

I hope you come back to me
when you’re ready.

strange bedfellows

excuse me, sir, but
for the umpteenth time,
could you please move over?

every single time
I get out of bed – which I do
with truly ridiculous frequency –
you immediately rush
to occupy my side. it’s
nice, I guess, that you’re keeping
my spot warm for me, but
you’re always reluctant to leave it
when I return in five minutes –
having done something
probably unnecessary like
smoke a cigarette while
tweeting a bunch of nonsense
or messaging someone –
and I’m getting pretty tired
of asking you
to move. and then
half the time
you insist on cuddling.

it was cute at first, but
you seem to feel compelled
to scratch me
multiple times
before positioning yourself,
and then you start biting
whatever part of my flesh
is in front of your face.

if I’ve told you once,
I’ve told you a hundred times:
no biting! or your cuddling
privileges will be revoked.
also you’re overdue for a
claw clipping. these deficiencies
must be corrected
before any further intimacy
will be awarded. finally,
your breath reeks
of cat food.