Three hungry cats are lying on the alley
(with a lopsided can just watching them).
One of them wants to look for fish;
the other two wish just for lipsticks
splattered on their foreheads
like an ancient ritual,
a baptism that’ll turn them to hungry cats forever.
Two of them have already felt it:
a tiny spill of crimson
running down their faces
and staining their whiskers.
The other one’s been thinking about fish for too long
(and now he thinks a can is the perfect lipstick holder)
but still hasn’t tasted nor been stained.
Hours have passed,
days or years even
or even in number and even bigger then.
Miraculously transparent behind some shadowy doorsteps
mirage inside the hormones spilled on the wall
(either piss or said lipsticks,
maybe splattered by accident).
The thing about cats is they never talk to each other
they just miao and maow aimlessly,
distracted, thinking ‘bout the thoughts the cat in front of them is refusing to think.
We tried. Damn hell we tried.
We climbed on top of the highest roofs. Stood the stiffest statues, stranded beneath the starlit streets in secret, waiting for fishes to swim by, showing their tiny heads, popping innocent prepared for imprisonment underneath the sewer overflows, smelling like pomegranates
(or maybe the fruit was between us all this time
and we were just too focused on waiting).
Not even a kiss or a ritual or a wave goodbye,
we were waiting together for (too much) time.
And we’re still here,
like sitting dogs
waiting for their masters
gone under the city rains.
Crumbling inside of us,
crying, they’re never coming back.
Will they, eventually?
And if so
How should we greet them?