ORIGIN: Just pretend the dog and the crocodile aren’t there. Focus on the black and white cats and the face in profile. We grew up drawing the good side of the moon and we have never been good with non-magical words. That’s why we will always be grateful to the cat for getting our tongue. But the moon speaks to many more hearts than we ever will, and it takes a clowder to keep that spell unbroken.
At a rabbit’s behest, this clowder of cats has reduced me to a waning moon in my own home. It didn’t take more than a feather-light touch on the tip of the nose. Curiosity took care of the rest. If only cat scratches took flight like shooting stars or x marked the spot. I have heard that every cloud has a silver lining, but I grew up borrowing light. Deep down, I only know the cold of space. None of the answers I have found have led me to a better place.
A feral cloud on a moonlit night. Cats can’t resist pawing at butterflies. What’s one life when you have eight to spare? I would also play with the fires of Hell if a finite number had been branded into my bones. But there is no end in sight to the cycle of the moon. Infinity doesn’t breed curiosity, only apathy.
This is the Moon, not an oriental subway. I’m sorry, little rabbit, we aren’t hiring pushers.
Moonlight falls like teardrops. I lost something the last time I cried. I don’t want to be part of that cluster of cats. Aloof and detached. I never wanted to grow into a star. But my eyes are dry and my last hope is hanging by a thread. I tell myself that I lost a fish. A homesick little fish that can’t wait to swim upstream, back where it belongs. I blame my bones, every centimeter marked on the door frame. But my eyes remain dry and with every meow, I feel more and more abandoned.