Perhaps it's just a childish tendency of mine
To hold onto this possession; white fur
That smells of the jungle and a memory
of a man with eyes as turquoise
as the blended color in the dawn
that seeps through my window in the
morning. It's predecessor before it
merely a stool to lie on-
nothing but memories and empty


waiting to be filled, isn't it a shame
that the hole will never close?