The sun soaked sofa

(1)

It had been one long winter train ride.

The sun soaked side of the sofa,

the side I preferred, waited for me

with hesitant anticipation, like a newlywed bride.

It had waited for me in the same place,

just as warm, for as long as I can remember.

As I let my cold body sink into her warm embrace,

there he was, with his nebulaic green eyes,

separated from his kans grass tail by a patch of darkness.

He had nimbly pardoned my absence,

after all, I had returned to serve his thinned milk.

I stretched to grab him and cuddle him perhaps,

but he knew my arm's length all too well,

for I could feel only his moist nose on my fingertips,

an essence of his being. No more, no less.

He glanced occasionally towards the kitchen door,

indicating where my redemption lay.

With the slightest twitching of my muscle,

he would spring towards it, returning,

every time, with exalted expectation.

And when I would finally let him in, his dark felt would

spread onto his eyes, under the dim kitchen light.

His tongue, rough yet loving, like a mother's hand,

cleaned that old milk saucer, the one I had summarily rejected.

A few drops on his beard, he would surely miss,

walk out, without the slightest appreciation,

and then encroach the sun soaked side of the sofa,

exhibiting his white underbelly in a show of contortion.

Once fast asleep, in his fishy dreams,

I would reoccupy my cozy nook.

(2)

I waited for the sun to hit the side I preferred,

I waited all day, I waited all winter. It never did.

I sank into the cold embrace of the sofa,

thinking of the bright little sun, that would curl up

on the 'sun soaked side of the sofa', everyday.

Warming it up for the cold man who served him thinned milk,

without the slightest expectation, save my safe return.

I still wait for him, with a saucer of warm milk

and his sun soaked side of the sofa.

The muse and the author connecting.

A glimpse of gloom

We still secretly hold hands,
like entwined roots underneath
thousand miles of detached earth.
Dreams run down our eyes,
seeking solace under well dressed pillows,
soggy with love laden talk.
I watched as the clouds that once
filled our pillow, effortlessly broke off
into two, leaving only darkness within.
But in rain, our roots embraced
lest the loose loam crumbled.
It never did and we never fell.
Only glanced at each other,
through the darkness that concealed all.
All but us, not you, not me.

The Final Serving

The last cup of coffee precariously hangs from an unsettled mist,
along with a few nicotinic remains, poised on a bed of charred matchsticks.
Half chewed bones clatter over spotless white porcelain, while others
almost home, snuggled between molars are persistently poked
by a cold searching tongue. Some give way, some stay for life.
Scattered crumbs of bread are lapped up with moist napkins.
A penny or two left behind are fought over with dispassionate fervor.
An insatiable soul, rests in peace, dreaming of yet another serving,
while chairs get filled and coffee cups emptied by disgruntled others.