Stitching with Sunlight

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The sun pours out from my eyes, pooling warm gold on the gray stones. I sit very still—if I move, the light might spill. My paws touch the ground, cool at first, then slowly stealing warmth from the sun's spill.

Humans walk by with legs like moving tree trunks, their shadows stretching to nudge my tail. I don't mind. Their shoes make sharp clicks, but the sun makes my fur feel like a soft, purring thing all its own.

I watch where the light lands—right there, where my gaze rests. Maybe the sun lives in my eyes now, I think. It keeps the stones from feeling too hard, keeps the world from being just gray and loud.

When you come home, I’ll show you my sun. I'll rub it onto your ankles so you don't step on the cold parts of the floor. My tail will sweep away the shadows that cling to your shoes. For now, I'll sit here, holding the light in my eyes, waiting for your footsteps to click closer.