"Belly Doesn’t Come Home Anymore (But I’m Still Waiting)"
Belly used to sleep on my chest;
a small, steady weight;
like my heart had learned
to purr.
Her belly would rise and fall
under my hand,
soft as trust;
like she chose me
without ever saying it.
I thought that was enough.
I thought that meant
she was mine.
I thought it meant
she would always come back.
But now
she belongs to another house;
another window;
another set of hands
that call her name
and hear her come running.
I still leave the door a little open sometimes.
Still listen for the scratch of her paws,
that familiar, insistent meow
that used to mean
I’m home.
But the nights stay empty.
And I wonder
if she sleeps the same way there;
curled against someone else’s ribs,
offering them the same soft belly,
the same easy love
she gave me
without thinking twice.
Do they know
how lucky they are?
Or is she just Belly to them;
not the small universe
she was to me.
I tell myself cats forget easily;
that warmth is just warmth,
that food is just food,
that love is just wherever it is given.
I try not to take it personally.
Cats are like that, they say;
they go where they’re fed,
where it’s warm,
where it’s easy.
But it still feels
like heartbreak.
Because she didn’t just leave;
she replaced me
without even knowing
there was something
to replace.
And I’m still here,
missing a cat
who doesn’t miss me back,
holding a space on my chest
that no longer
has a name.
The nights are quieter now,
but I keep pretending
quiet means nothing has changed.
I still leave the door open sometimes;
not because I think I should,
but because somewhere in me
still believes
she might come back.
And the thing is,
I’m still hoping you’ll come home.
Not loudly.
Not like a miracle.
Just like Belly used to;
casual, certain, like you never left at all.
andulkaphoto
snowghoul
janainaart
yousharknotpass