qualia
there is something to be said about sickness stemming straight from inside emptiness comes from death and while i still talk to you before i sleep and whenever i see your reflections, your less-like-cloud more-like-cotton fur is gone bite marks on my arms are fading but my ears still perk up when the fan in my room whines so sweetly in the mornings (you beg to be let out) and the metal clangs some far away and it is your childhood bell ringing (you shake yourself dry) the citrus of the orange leaks out because i did not have it in me to visit you again i am ill, without the pink and black of your paw and i will not believe that the mocha of your brown is no longer spilling into your vanilla white when i comb through it