Overture Downs I told you a lie, désolé, mon amour

it was a cliché for a patient to become infatuated with the one who tended to them.

it would be fleeting, she knew. yet in that moment she thought the world might just be them! her fur cleansed and bramble woven free by this woman. whatever pain was in her paw had lessened. whether it was credited to the woman or the medicine was unknown to the feral creature.

belonging.

drifting.

nomad she had told a woman once. it had not bothered her as much then, but now she knew it felt like chasing a ghost.

adrift, she confessed softly as if she was opening another wound. yet this one was not of the flesh and she was not sure if she ready for it to mend. even if weather forced her hand, even if mother winter started to show in the cooling temperatures.

no one claims.

proud of this, even if it means adrift.