Do you love me?

She’s twenty-five and has been in deep plots. She has a cat and talks to her every other time. Pretending her cat’s meows and innocent brush of its body to hers are a part of figures of speech,

She tries to dig out the significant meaning of its images only to realize there’s more to them than just the figures of speech but also the parts of speech.

They are on the bed on a misty Sunday afternoon. They’ve been there as if none of the chores are of so much importance. She holds the feline’s neck and touches its tag with her delicate fingertips. But the cat just looks and looks. Then meows and meows.

The cat’s brown eyes sparkle. I hope it’s not made of lead that weighs down someone’s faith and intoxicate. Oh and I heard her ask the cat. This is not really me. But I see her talk and talk. And I just can’t seem to walk and shake it off. 

She holds the cat’s neck, pull it closer til its ear presses her red lips. She asks her with intense grace and might “Do you love me?” But the cat just meows and meows while she waits and waits

Like a hopeful twelve-year-old child in her puberty love rush. She couldn’t contain her agony so she holds her cat the same. And whispers to her all over again. I look at her and hear her from there. As she draws the feline closer her feelings are dragged nearer. 

She whispers to the cat “Say it. Please say it.” But the cat just looks and looks then meows and meows

While she begs and begs.