What a strange animal.
It smudges exactly that which its soul prefers spotless.
It draws breathes of white air and
gazes through a window
that will likely never allow in an optimistic breeze.
Its eyes gaze down as if pleading to be told that
cleanliness is indeed an illusion, and that I welcome
this ashen expressionism
painted across my chest.
But I don’t want the visits to end.
I don’t want the ritual to end.
On those white breath nights,
when it covers itself in primary colors,
I know it’ll come back feeling unclean.
Painting me again with its paw.
It’ll seek me out.
White. Clean.
Ready again for the ashes to fall.
