It's the cat

This,
This waistland of broken stuff.
Broken songs,
Made for a cracked voice.
Broken promises,
That they all forgot.
A broken glass,
Thrown in a hasty momment of rage.
Broken discs,
To an old fashioned radio.

She's a free bird now.
Weightless in her climb,
Upwards.
Free of every burden she had to carry.
She safe,
And warm,
Comfortable.
She's watching,
Making sure you're alright,
Because all she wanted to do was protect you.

That gorgeous scoundrel,
Who looks at you and you just melt,
And makes you think of a whirling dance from your past,
Where the butterflies are evacuating your stomache,
And flying to your head,
Making you light headed and dizzy.

A Candle.
A wire covered in dripping candle wax,
That had connected to an yellowing lamp.
Where the old lady sat,
Watching her telaphone.
Intently.
A firm death,
Wrapped in rose petals,

People say it takes a miracle for some people to change.
I think a tragady works too.
Because you've changed, quite a lot actually.
Sometimes when I look at you or hear you're voice,
I have to process for a momment and realize,

Putting a smile of my face,
Along with some mascara,
Everyday so I don't look like a crap,
Is tiring.
So the smile is gone,
And the mascara is messily put on,
In a hurry for my first video chat of the day.