Where the Quiet Lives: A Poem for Millie

In the hush between two busy days,
you curl like a question mark on my bed—
soft fur, softer soul,
a silent symphony with eyes that say
“I see you,”
without needing words.

You came not with a bang,
but like a whispered hope—
a pawstep into my life
when the world felt too loud.

Anxious heart, like mine,
startled by sudden sounds,
we made a pact in unspoken glances:
I won’t push. You won’t hide forever.
And we’ll both learn to trust again.

Your meows are rare,
but when they come,
they feel like secrets shared only with the moon.
And in your stillness,
you’ve taught me the weight of presence,
how sometimes just being there
is more than enough.

You sit at windows,
a quiet sentry of ordinary light—
and I wonder what worlds
you guard with your gaze.
Do you dream of fields or flying things?
Or only of the safe scent
of my shirt on the laundry pile?

Millie,
your name is a sigh I say
at the end of long days—
and somehow,
just knowing you’re waiting
makes the loneliness less sharp,
the silence more kind.

And maybe this is what love is:
not loud, not grand—
but curled at the foot of the bed,
purring through the storms,
waiting for me to come home.