Flicker

— Tiffany Oallesma Galicia

the tabby doesn’t belong to him
she lives in one of the white stucco houses down the street
but she purrs as she circles him
she’s affectionate and familiar
even though he knows nothing about her

hey, how are you
his hands follow the curve of the woman’s back
he feels the rise and fall of her chest against his
he kisses her neck, inhaling the scent of orchids and honeysuckle
he gazes into her eyes
and sees longing and vulnerability
the sunset and sunrise
the flicker of fiery embers
I can’t, she says
as his lips touch hers

she never did belong to him
so when she stopped showing up
he stopped looking
the flicker of light extinguished at sunset.

 

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