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