Creative writing #2: Six Years

Laughter, giggling or chuckling. 
Belly laughs and throwing back my head 
to hear my scarred lungs wheeze. 
I forgot you used to do that. 
I've never met a woman who makes me laugh 
as much as you, 
and you would probably laugh that off. 
Your body language is a walk 
along a beach, 
in the sunset, 
with a crowd of people 
smiling and laughing. 
Wearing turmeric coloured clothing 
and tripping 
on the sand 
with a drink in hand. 
I do not see a beautiful woman, 
I see a beautiful existence and a gravity, 
a current that you pick others up in.
I'm sorry things have been so bad.
A photo of a ginger cat relaxing on a path

Thanks to my cat: creative writing on a Saturday morning

Gingy, do not move.
You are my purring paperweight.
It is nine thirty four and all I can hear are the clocks.
I stroke your head as my love rolls over.
Your eyes say 'steady' as the bed rocks
and the covers are tugged.
I stroke the back of your head
and your ears twitch.
You purr and I am grateful,
I cannot remember the last time
I was so clear headed at the start of a weekend.

You are my totem.
I will use you to anchor myself in what others may do.
Whilst you are here I can lie to my self.
You are my excuse to assume
a position of leisure
when all my instincts usually say is work.
Achieve.
Create...
Get up. Do stuff.
Be prolific.
Death awaits and life is always ticking and tocking.
But I stretched.
And you turned around and jumped off.