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The skeleton of a cat sits on my desk,

its hollow eyes fixed on me,

a silent reminder of something undone—

or maybe nothing at all.

I feel the weight of its gaze,

pressing into my chest like a question

I can’t answer, don’t want to answer.

If it matters, it’s already too late.

So I bury the thought,

close my eyes, let sleep come.

Wake up, see the cat,

feel that same pull,

and push it away again.

But today, I linger,

the hollow sockets calling me back,

not to the forgotten, but to the present.

It is time to eat, I realize—

the thought arrives suddenly,

as if the cat itself whispered it.

And then it moves.

Slow and deliberate,

rising from its skeletal stillness,

padding softly out the door.

I understand now:

it was never the hunger of the body,

but the hunger for more—

for the chase, for the thrill,

for the warmth of life beyond this room.

I have starved it,

blaming time, or work, or everything else.

But the truth is simple:

it waited for me to notice,

even when I thought it was too late.

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