They hang around my house and watch me as I come and go.
It is as if they pay the mortgage and their property has been violated¬†by my presence.
Two¬†stray cats¬†stab me with stares of loathing as I go about the¬†business of living. They eat from my trash, take shelter under my¬†house, and cry into the bedroom floorboards on nights too cold. I¬†never invited them in, and yet they seem to know I will not refuse¬†them. They have a wildness about them, a sleek, dark beauty. They know¬†I love cats, but they also know that I love dogs. And they despise¬†such weakness, such mixed loyalties.
Why is it they remind me so much of you?
Were you ever happy when you had me? At times, you absolutely did not¬†want me. Others, you had to have me. Most of the time, what you wanted¬†was for me to reverse myself just for you. You acted like some¬†spoiled, insecure child who just had to make sure that indeed, in this¬†one way, the world did revolve around you.
You know you cared, but you could not properly show it. That just¬†would have been bad form, wouldn’t it?
You could never be both mature and direct. You still can’t.
Now you are sending me little notes, though you know it is¬†inappropriate.
You are like a¬†stray cat¬†mewling under my house.