Sphinx

She kneads me in the middle of the night while I should be sleeping and leaves affectionate pin pricks that are still there on my skin in the morning and look a bit like a rash on my rib cage. She always scratches sensitive places, holding the citadel of dreams hostage until I give in to her silly games. Once she has had her fill of me and play she curls up beside my tired face and sleeps against my pillow, close enough her tail hangs lightly around my neck.

About thepoetsglass

Professor, poet, philosophical dilettante, plus some other impressively heady alliterations. Instructional designer and copywriter. Cognitive neuroscientist by night. Self-diagnosed coffee addict, sometime dancer, brooding bibliophile, and an always salty sailor.
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