I. Past

The cherry-stained box embossed with your name was still warm from the fire.
If I placed my ear against its side I could hear your purrs from over a lifetime ago.
I have videos of the last time I visited home, to see you;
mews so quiet they are barely heard over the fridge’s off key humming.
Sitting on a couch- cold without your presence, the middle seat vacant aside
from similarly beige throw pillows that people are not allowed to lean on.

            II. Present

Maybe, in the next life I will get to meet you- where your fingers are full
and your fur isn’t patchy. Where youth strides alongside you;
fur dark as night, eyes bright as dawn. I hope she is treating you half as well
as I know you are treating her. The bookshelf, taking on another tenant-
I leave room next to my headboard for you to settle into, swatting away bad dreams.
Ghostly toe beans, tender and warm, crush me in my sleep.

            III. Future

I contemplate what languages we will speak in the end-
when you walk me to the finish line. A platoon of paws and compassion waving me forward
into the darkness, knowing I would have done the same for them. 
I can see you. greeting me with a pensive smile that I know is so sweet
it would compete with honey-

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Wesley Orion (He/Him) is a Queer, Trans, and neurodiverse writer who lives and works in the Columbus area. He writes to empower his voice and the voices of others with a focus on fostering a space of pure ambition, representations of adversity, and the unity of storykeepers.