Kimora Hornbeak Poet Narrative

My Cat Sweetie

I remember the cold breeze`
Rushing against my fingertips,
Guiding me to your warm fur—
Have I ever felt so helpless,
Or was it simply wonder?

Three small bodies breathed in a woven basket,
soft as dandelion seeds in spring.
Two were dusk and shadow,
but you—
you were morning.

Your fur held the pale light of clouds,
your eyes two quiet drops of honey.
When I lifted you
the world seemed to pause in my hands,
as if beauty itself had chosen a heartbeat.

I told myself it was simple:
the prettiest one.
As though love could be measured
by color and softness.

You curled into my palms
like a small living secret,
purring a fragile song
only I could hear.

The house learned your footsteps—
light as drifting petals across the floor.
Sunlight followed you from window to window,
resting on your back
as if you were made for it.

And I thought beauty was the reason
I chose you.
But slowly I learned
it was not the color of your fur,
nor the brightness of your eyes—
it was the quiet way you trusted the world,
the way you slept without fear
against my chest.

Now the rooms are wider.
The sunlight lingers alone on the floor.
Sometimes the wind slips through the window
and brushes my fingertips again,
and for a moment
I am back in that first cold breeze—
reaching forward in wonder,
not knowing
how something so small
could fill a life.

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