Poem.

corn and dead grass and emeralds in marbled orb eyes
(shooting moonbeams back at me
in the pitch dark)
watched my every faucet teardrop.
even on covert, soul-sore days.

triangle ears cut from black felt patterns
(so sweet to kiss, so thin
with little network veins sketched in them)
heard each warbled languish mourn-moan.
even in voiceless, zipped-up nights.

cautiously padded paws
(that readied perpetually
my never-quite-squishy-enough-for-you bed dressings)
grazed all my hairline heart cracks.
even from fine, untouchable culprits.


Sweet Olivia,
I cherish the scars that you gave me.