The ghost cats walk through the house as if it is the Serengeti and their watering hole exists under the table. They keen like the cries of a baby, masking their intentions to simply break hearts. I want to welcome them but they vanish into the walls as though they were made of nature. They unsteady my sleep as they come out and in.
They jump through the window, one by one, and walk in a gang towards the door, as if I am a migratory path, as if my heart should feel every soft footstep like a splinter.