#gracayan

he is half my soul, as the poets say. what is the boat without the humble rocking of a pulling wave beneath it? what is a seafarer if not a servant of the stars? what is a ribcage without a heart, a dance without music, a waltz without a partner? i press my hand to my chest and feel it, there, the fluttering that interrupts the silence with a stuttering hiccup — my heartbeat. his two step in the home we carved out, together, in a labour of love. there, beneath the tender flesh of my aorta, sipping tea: he sits with the book held open at sonnet 18 by a gentle paw as the fire crackles and burns so brightly it stings,