The boy that hates cats has forgotten how to love.
It’s too easy to believe that our wet mouths can love each other.
Love is not the loneliness of Valentine’s Day, or realizing
you have no one to call on the way home from your grandmother's funeral.
It isn’t writing birthdays on a calendar,
it’s being on an airplane and your ears bursting open,
tears drowning your baby cheeks while you wonder if this is dying.
It’s knowing that you’re not dead because someone is squeezing you,
reminding you to swallow and handing you gum.
It’s standing in front of your front door and seeing a cat
waiting for you to come home, never wondering where you were.
The boy doesn’t want to be loved, the boy doesn’t love himself.