As I walked through the mist, a small cat- black and white -with large eyes crept down a path from a backyard. God sends me cats, so I listened closely for the teaching.

I stopped walking to crouch where I stood with palm-up, open hands and offered a soft "pst". The cat held eye contact with me, walking sweet and surefooted as though it would come right into my arms. Joy spread through my heart. I was special. I was chosen. I had something about me that the cat just wanted to get close to. Just looking at it I could feel its soft fur, hear the purrs, imagined us being all snuggled in my bed. It felt real. The cat closed the distance until only 10 feet away.

Then it stopped. Its body language changed. It staggered back, flattened its ears and looked away toward an escape route. I did not change my posture nor my action, staying crouched with palm-up, open hands. I did not approach or make myself bigger than it, just waited to watch what it chose to do. I spoke another "pst" and then a "hey, it's okay."

The cat darted off to the left through the darkened garden. Appearing on the far side of the brush, it ran down the sidewalk without another glance at me.

What happened? What changed? What did I do wrong?

Had I chased it I may have caught it, but likely would have been scratched and lost it all the same, just in a worse way. Had I been carrying a treat, he may have come to me but staying only momentarily until his feast was over. Then for even those moments he stayed how could I then be sure it was for me at all.

The only way for me to have him was for him to choose me, and he did not. He chose to run the opposite direction, creating distance ensuring I had no access to him. Though I looked over my shoulder and felt a sadness as I accepted this, I knew he was never mine. Even from the beginning when it felt I was sure he was.

Had I not walked down that road I’d have not felt the loss or rejection. The embarrassment from other onlookers. The devastation and confusion. The lack of closure and lingering questions of what could have been. However, I would also not have deepened my respect for myself in letting things be.

I know myself. I know I could have given that cat comfort, love, a home. Had he chosen me, I know I would have made him so happy. I am a peaceful heart, a kind soul and respectful in my ability to accept that the choices of others are only theirs. He did not choose me, and while there are parts of him I feel I missed out on, I know more of that which he missed out on from me.

Perhaps the cat was put-off by something about me when he got too close. Perhaps I moved my hands the wrong way or wore the wrong perfume. Perhaps I made one too many "pst pst" sounds and annoyed him. Perhaps my posture was too pushy or assuming. Perhaps he was scared by a passing car or other pedestrian. Perhaps he was hurt by a girl like me before. Perhaps he saw the a girl through the garden that looked like the one he lost. Perhaps he already had a home and I was merely an obstacle to get back...

I will never know why he didn’t choose me. I do know, however, that I was meant to see him, hope for him, briefly have him and lose him. Because God sends me cats.

To forgive you is a sinkhole

of quicksand that I am helpless to

disappearing into.

The more I struggle,

suffocating in the gravity of it all

against the incomparable strength and pressure

that folds around me as things go dark once again.

Like a natural current washing me back on your shores

no matter how I strain my arms to paddle

the wind works against me

as though the weather is always wrong.

To forgive you is a reflex,

catching the egg as it rolls off the counter

tenderly, gently in my palm.

With the power to break it

but unable.

To forgive you is to place it back in the carton

and forfeit my meal.

Leaving the house without an umbrella

not checking the forecast and leaving it all to chance.

Submitting to what the forces beyond myself will bring.

But again, the weather...

To forgive you is a live trap I release the latch on yet again

knowing two more of my chickens

will go missing this evening.

But everyone has to eat.

To forgive you is my tongue out catching snowflakes,

head tipped back, eyes closed, throat exposed.

Unknowing if I am getting anything.

But it's all the same either way

for I will never know.

I will always posture myself this way

that makes it the easiest to trust.

In the the physics.

Your hunger.

My weakness.

The weather.

My thirst.

A melted,

pelted,

rotten

heart.

It lives in my chest causing harm.

Fermenting in its selfish ways.

Composting in such toxic ways.

To eat a fruit is to love life.

Erotic in each fresh, clean bite.

Though when a fruits skin gets torn through.

Beware, it may just poison you.

Waving.

What we do well.

Why waste what we've weightlessly weaved

with words?

Words will without waver

wither wonderful waiting.

Wobbly waves will withstand.

Whether we want warmth

or warnings.

Waves will wash our wants,

witnessing where we

wish we were.

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I love alliteration poems! Please leave me prompts and your favorite letter (and even a word count!) I would be so grateful for the challenge

My dear, let yourself

let it go.

Though sad, unfair

to leave unknown.

Unknown, the smiles.

Unknown intent.

Unknown how many

nights both spent

out wand'ring streets

so aimlessly

hoping paths to cross.

Unseen.

Just bleed and seethe.

My dear, let yourself

let it go.

The knife is twisted.

Flesh has torn.

Torn out, your lungs.

Torn out, your eyes.

Torn out your heart

of shallow lies

set waiting by the

silent phone

revering love

though stark alone.

Moan and groan.

My dear, let yourself

let it go.

For if he loved you

You would know.

My galaxy reformed beyond just the sky.

To how often upon something you lay your eyes

and with how much warmth or with deep despise.

Who is your Moon? That you sing to each night?

Who is your Sun? Whom coats all in light?

For a moment I thought- I felt -maybe you might

grab my hands and swing me in circular flight.

Are your stars the walks you wish to take on your own?

Is your orbit the six blocks that circle your home?

No. Wider and faster your path, now I see.

Which is how I don't know how there is no space for me.

For your Moon and your Sun, I can only guess who

but your Pluto cast out into deep inky blue...

Simply exiled one day without even a word.

No longer acknowledged.

No longer heard.

Yes your Pluto there is no question of

who is she.

For you are the Sun

and meek Pluto is me.

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(Alt. last lines for my own memory: If you are the Sun, then meek Pluto is me)

Small, hard buds will shortly bloom

Into green leaves, the morning dew

will grace the grass soon tinting green.

The sun will shine, the birds will sing.

Small streams of melted snow vacate.

Love calls out for its sweet mates.

A warmer, kinder air hangs ’round.

Seeds planting in softened ground.

The ancient earth appears again,

renewed and washed away of sin.

Fresh calendar reveals new months

and pledges change so soon to come.

A choir of voices carrying

A longing call to welcome spring.

I have found myself wondering what your room looks like,

the way your hand laces itself into another,

the sounds you make when your neck is kissed.

Oh, just to hear your voice describe these to me

from a distance.

It would be enough.

I look at a photo

from years ago,

a moment I forgot I lived.

And in it, a shirt.

I can feel it on my skin

its worn softness.

Comfortable,

though ill-fitting.

Worn nearly every day

to bed, to work, to school.

Brought everywhere.

In many pictures

moments

places

trips

the shirt was

against my skin

or at least not far from it.

When did I decide to give it away?

And whose skin is so lucky to feel is easy warmth now?

A reason I fail to recall.

Was it a loose thread? Missing button?

So foolish then... it would have been an easy fix.

Or was it something else?

The way it enhanced my worst qualities. Or draped lazily over my curves.

The way the sleeves refused to stay rolled

and the pocket on the front was not functional at all.

No.

I truly cannot recall, nor the day it ceased to be in my laundry.

In my life.

How funny that something I once held so dear

and which held me

is now only existent when

I look at a photo.

A smooth, sweet apple ever-ripe sleeps hidden in a pocket of my coat. Unbruised and blemish-free, a miracle of physics seen as all that it has traversed.

For on a specifically teetering day in the library, it slipped and bounced away from me down the stairs underfoot of a glowing patron. He hardly noticed, only breaking stride slightly and dragging glistening pieces of it across the carpet. I grieved the night in its entirety to find the next morning an eclipse of a heart-shaped shadow cast upon my floor.

Once offered to a curious lover for a look, I made the mistake of turning my face to the sky. Newly inspired and reaching for love, I noticed his lips were sticky-sweet and his hands empty. On my sore walk home, I collapsed and cried a small stream of tears. Rolling along its banks in the reeds another apple greeted me.

Now I hold my ever-ripe apple close to me in pockets that zip. I have lost my taste for pies and lip gloss, colors too-bright and sounds too loud. More sensitive perhaps, but harder as well. For one cannot remain bruise-less without reincarnating with a shell.