We are not as animals as we once suspected. We are not as primal as we long to be.
We are softer than the beasts within the wood and field; more mild than the creatures of the sea. We are tame when placed beside the bugs that breed ferociously.
Only in our disrespectful mimic and our mime, do we become ‘as animals’ in heat.
But I see you. I know you, now. We sleep, muscles bent, tendons curled, stomachs filled with the warm milk of a curious world. Every flat surface of our kingdom, covered, with unopened letters from unqualified senders. The dishes, never dirty, only fondly cherished by the remnants of our love, make the kitchen seem less perfect and perhaps more human.
…which is what we are, after all.
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