Here I am
Sitting on my unmade bed
Writing stupid love poems
About someone who won’t read them anyways.
But on my lap
A pile of cotton fluff breathes
With the steady rhythm
That can only mean one thing-
Is it comical to say that I’m
Jealous of my dog?
The peace with which he breathes
And the carefree stretch he gives
To tell me,
“Pet me more.”
How does it not bother him
That he’s not the only one that I love?
I can’t help but love this
As he sleeps away his nonexistent troubles
Snore after snore,
Snuffling my hand as he lies there
Half asleep and dreaming of