If the world was ending, I would let my cat choose one of my fingers.
If she chooses the index finger, I would listen to her soft vowels and curious chanting about her past eight lives.
She keeps telling me I was a Persian cat once.
If she licks my thumb, I will set off on a transequatorial venture to hobnob with the ghosts of my past.
My fetish for palm trees and coconut water might do me more good than the scotch whiskey in my kitchen cabinet.
If she bites my middle finger, I will pick out my favorite words and wrap them in a paper with your face all over it.
And send you.
These would be the words bought and sold in the supermarket of love and friendship but now they are of no use.
The world is coming to a close, I don’t need words.
I have enough truths to make you cry silver tears but I will send you only words.
The truths can turn my tears to wine and make me jump into ice cold rapscallion waters to scrub away all that might stop me from moving from this world to the next.
Or I could just bury my denuded moans into the marshmallow pillow that you gifted me.
Joy is fiction.
At least the end would be real.
