They had lived together for many years,
Curiosity and the cat, without nary an outward sign
of animosity, resentment or regret.
They met fresh out of college,
the cat just having ended
a tumultuous affair with a women
who said she loved him
as she smoothed another’s hair,
while Curiosity’s gaze turned
outside her room of books
for the first time as he was passing by.
They kissed a week after commencement,
each sure they’d found their one
true ticket to happiness
and settled down to greet
the harbingers of joy,
but that first fall brought sickness,
as she went out the door
to visit with her friends
he stayed home to vomit
wishing she had heard
the note of plaintive yearning
in his hollow urging
to go enjoy the night.
He hadn’t meant to say it,
he blamed it on his state
of feverish exhaustion
and hours of naught but retching
to keep the silence entertained.
In the morning he said his sorry,
she said it’s all right,
but the grief gained a toe-hold
and it too spent the night.
They always thought to smile,
though not when on their own,
Curiosity with her claw-marked arms,
the cat in desperate need of space;
how ironic then, that she smothered him,
a pillow to the face.
For once, she did without wondering,
she knew it would stop his breath,
the one great question left for her
was what came after death.
So she sent him on ahead of her,
and waited for a message,
but the jury pitied her solace
and let them meet again.
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