The kisses are like a flurry of notes, written with a single word and bundled down by bailing twine tied fast upon my body. I am a record of peace made last between us on the day I met your cat; a brief repast between the bites of meat long cured at another table. “Please” and “Yes” are the most common phrases, but also “Popsicle,” “Pajamas" and “Chagrin,” just like the way you look at me when I (desperate) make you laugh. How silly I must seem, bizarre and un- divided; use your chest as a battering ram and my hands to thread your fingers like a sewing needle. The view of your face stood like the moon above here still remains my favourite– it means you have not uttered yet the final mark of "Gone away," and "Have decided."