Cloudlike, fluffy and airy but the color of gathered dust; a light pressure against my hip or shoulder in the morning, like a raindrop hanging off the windowsill, a tiny bit of matter ready to drop percussively to a splatter. This little lovebug, dark like the night, rests against me, takes my support, like the mycelium of the forest, his soft ears prepared for the sound of my waking.

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