The cat a perfect comma curled

The cat, a perfect comma, curled

against the radiator, sleek and warm.

Her fur a soft, contented world,

protected from the coming storm.

I watched her, from the cold sofa's edge.

The space beside me, a vast, bare plane.

No soft weight, no gentle pledge

of comfort, just the steady, dull ache of rain

against the pane. The chill from the window pane.

My skin remembers heat, the press of skin.

But the air here is thin, again.

No other body, no place to begin

to thaw this quiet, deep-seated frost.

Just a silent wish, completely lost.