the wolf

in the corner of my room sits a wolf that’s crying.

his fur looks spiky but feels soft to the touch, not that i would know for sure, i’ve never come near him.

but i believe the imagination that my eyes provide when he goes through his fur with his paws and sighs.

i know he wails a little louder when i close my eyes.

he doesn’t let me sleep when he waits for me to look.

maybe he’s waiting for me to reach out, but i’m cold and he’s sitting too far from my bed.

so we stare at each other, him visibly upset while i tell him to take deep breaths.

we never have good days, him and i.

most of the times he is yelling, scratching the walls,

tearing on my sheets to wake me, howling for my attention.

i offer it to him, but maybe i don’t know how to give it to him the way he needs it.

i can’t ask him what he needs, he doesn’t speak.

he follows me and walks with me, from a distance he’s observing me.

i don’t give him much notice

because i do my thing while he does his.