He is mine as sure as words
give pause to sweet sighs.
I love the softness of him
I see in his eyes.
He does not find fault in my
demands or my cries -
nor when I rub my big head
on his trousered thighs.
The day I found him I knew
that I had a prize.
So I presented him with
the finest of flies -
and a dead mouse gift also
but he prefers fries.
I like to sit in his lap
while books make him wise -
and I play with the pages
like one of the guys.
When I come home wet he rubs
my fur 'til it dries.
Then I snuggle down with him
and dream 'til sunrise.
^.^
Written for The Mag: Mag 215 that inspired with the above image prompt
(The King of Cats, 1935, Balthus).
.
