Wishes to the Night
After a long night on the night shift,
I lie in bed with you, my lover companion,
my Mrs. Brisby,
and I hold you, with my dry human hands on your furred hips,
and I whisper sweet romantic thoughts into your pointed ears.
The crickets sing through the opening of the cinder block,
and I can hear our children snoring soft.
I worked tonight,
I worked tonight for us,
because I love you.
I came home clean because I love you.
I drink seltzer water instead of Four Loko tonight, because I don't want to lose you.
You are timeless; whether you are on a VHS tape in 1984, or a DVD in 2013, or I have chosen to keep you in my heart, your soul is timeless.
I waste time writing this to you, because you are my desire, my longing. The gadgets of the world do not satisfy my trembling heart. The Gods of man's churches do not satisfy, either. I want you, my lover, my honey baby, and to take care of you, and your children, and to raise a home together, with laughter, grace, and love.
I figure somewhere, as I write this, someone, somewhere, stronger than human, more powerful than imagination, will be willing to grant me my wish, the wish encompassed here tonight, to bond us together. To hold you, hand in paw, to giggle, and coo with you, to make love with you, coat your womb with my essence with you, and make more children, anthro children, while we listen to Chicago XVII, which has always been for me an album of furry strength.
For tonight, Mrs. Brisby, wherever you are, even if you are just a delusion of my imagination, know that I have the innocent childlike belief that we may meet someday, and that we may dance together, my queen, with your king. Good night, my love.