Little Phoebe.

Her bones down her back -
they ache and roll and they itch.
She's an angel in the face,
soft, plush, young.

The thing hates the rain
but loves to rest her cheeks upon the grass
and inhale
the scent of summer.

She squeals - early in the morning
before I've placed my feet upon the ground
but she can't reach me
for there are iron bars in her way.

Every detail holds her gaze.
Every moment she will trace my finger tips moving,
the shadows moving
and the screen moving.

I am weak for her
like a broken warrior for a Queen
like a safely prioritised dream.
It is love, or at least infatuation.

**For my Kitten**