Metaphorically, I'm a beetle. I follow you,
sit quiet beneath your table where you eat,
enjoying the view. Manicured fingers reach down,
straightening your seams.
Trailing you from the café
- grey with cigarette ash -
you get glances from roving eyes, I despise them,
rage with jealousy, you belong to me.
I've loved you since that first day,
when you released me from the cellar's decay
and I climbed to the roof where lizards sunned
and ciccadas serenaded me.
You could have crushed me, flushed me down the toilet,
but you pointed me to the steps which led to the roof.
I'm on top of the world… metaphorically.