A dog's life

I reckon when I'm her age,

when I'm all enchanting,

someone will caress my fur,

and scratch behind my neck.

I'm often concerned

when she just glares at me, 

without saying a word,

and then tilt her head asking,

for complimentary words.

Does she love me 

the way I do, 

like I'm the only existing 

star in the dark?

Or does she think 

there are more humans 

across the fading horizon

who insanely care about

the death of a white moon?

I get anxious when 

she isn't her talkative self.

Maybe she's just an introvert

on certain days of the year,

marked on her journal,

who loves drifting 

in lyrics of quatrains

read by a thirsty voice.

I'll wait for her first successful

whisper to my ears,

and hope we never collide.

©amtupu