I keep feeling soft thumps
on the edge of the bed at night.
Startled from sleep,
I raise my head and look,
but you are not there.
I am still picking your fur
from the fibers of my clothes.
The towels in the laundry basket
retain the indent of your form.
Some of my books were mauled by you
in kittenhood, covers still dotted
with little tooth and claw marks,
a sort of feline Braille.
I touch them and recall
you pushing your head
into my palm.
Our time has made me--
I am loveless and adored.
I am empty and full.
I am lonely and never lonely.
I am joyless and overjoyed.
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