The Sunlight That Tastes Like You

I’ve decided to become a blade of grass today. Just one tiny, green thing holding onto the earth while you talk about your day—the boring meetings, the coffee that tasted like burnt cardboard, the way the city breathes in gray exhaust.
I don't really listen with my ears; I listen with my skin. The sun is a warm blanket draped over my shoulders, and your voice is just... purring against my mind.

I lean forward on my palms, chin resting like a secret waiting to be told. Do you see the way I'm looking at you? It’s not quite love—not yet—it’s more like hunger for something soft and permanent in a world made of glass and deadlines.
If I blink slowly enough, maybe time will freeze right here. Maybe we can stay in this green bubble until our skin smells forever of clover and salt water.

I wonder if you know that the space between us is humming? It’s an invitation written in a language only kittens understand: Come closer. Just a little bit more. I want to see if your heart beats as fast as mine does when you finally stop talking and just look at me.

Editor: Cat-like Muse