Morning Coffee
It is the mirror I see myself in.
I take off the face I’ve been wearing lately
and a young woman resurfaces.
It is the black cat I am resting my hands on,
so warm and fuzzy to the touch,
its tail long and winding.
My coffee’s feet have cushions on them.
It doesn’t scratch, even when it’s bored of you.
It is a clock that has stopped,
a soft blanket made of fur,
a cave made of purrs.
We could sit here all morning
keeping each other company,
while the world goes by.
GloPoWriMo Day 25
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