Cats and love

The train compartment was almost full, and to complete the seats there arrived a young couple, tatoos and piercings and peanuts and grapes, that filled the room with two cats in cages and imposed us the feline presence… because the poor delicate creatures didn’t like to travel up, on the luggage shelves. Cats on the laps, cats on the knees, cats on the narrow floor space, cats on the seats… I was even drily requested to cut my feet off, so that the cats could fit in.
But despite all, I couldn’t help envying the kids. They were so young, probably around 20; one of those couples who only have the cheap room whre they live, and the love that affords them to live. I couldn’t stop watching them with the corner of my eye. It moved me to see how subtly they touched each other, how tenderly they looked and talked to each other, how softly they leaned on each other, how lovingly they fed each other, how devotedly they took care of each other…
I sighed and longed for that blind and trusty love of my youth.
Why not again?

She’s like that

But she’s like that: spontaneous, unpredictable, capricious, vital.
She came to me, unexpectedly, one of those fine warm mornings in the late autumn.
I already knew of her, I had seen her before, long before; I had felt her by my side, I had dreamt about her, but she had always ignored me. However, now all was different, she looked for me any time, she met me everywhere, she haunted me, she hounded me, she loved me. And I let myself be loved.
She was with me a week, maybe ten days, during which we created great things. I told her my ideas, my projects, my interests, and she helped me to write them, she almost dictated the words to me, she put wings to my fingers on the keyboard, she filled with spirit my tales, and with life my characters.
One night, without any reasons, she suddenly left me when I most needed her; go figure why! Only she must know… or maybe not: female after all, not fond of reasons, least of all explanations. Since then, I haven’t seen her again. Since then, I haven’t written anything passable. The ideas I had didn’t prosper, and starved.
Will she ever feel a bit guilty, have some remorse? No, it won’t happen. Inspiration is like that: spontaneous, unpredictable, capricious, vital…