I need a cat.

Free-writing time.

I Need a Cat.
I need a cat
to keep me on track
so I don’t feebly attack
and latch
the impulse to touch
’cause it’s asking for too much.
To hold your hand would be such
such
such
a disaster.
Remind myself that I’m my own master,
that the dirt roads will go by faster,
if I simply contain and file away
to save for another day,
all the constant replays
of us in bed, being gay.
But as a romantic,
it makes my head all frantic
and the static is tic-
tic-
ticcing until I’m spastic.
Memories lodged in my throat,
not knowing where to go
because who the hell knows
what to do in these situations?
Should I keep standing on shaky legs,
manic-depressive begging
to be dissolved carried into the air?
It might not be fair
but maybe that’s how I know it’s love–
when all you care
for is a hand on your balls,
just like old times.

Yes, a cat would be nice,
but instead of catching mice,
she would give me advice:
“I want to talk to him– what should I say?”
And she only answers back with a stare at my face,
silent as space.
And that’s when you see,
that you can wait for epiphanies
so that he’ll come back,
or scribble to find the words,
but the truth is–

The truth is.

It’s best to stay unheard.