It sucks

like mud covered up by a fine layer of dust and a tangle of flowers.

There you are, all  ladeedaying about in the busy busy life and then some little synaps suddenly decides to make your skin and muscles remember how it felt, the weight of him on one arm and all spread out over your lap, the very gentle swell of his breathing, the little rumble with which he'd start purring, the total abandon after a deep sigh of content. An infinite universe of memory compressed into a little black hole that pulls an alien croak from your throat.

And you stumble along through a day suddenly broken, one feet naked, boot still stuck in the mud.


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