Wasps don't live long.
A month at most.
Queens may live longer.
Your lover is not the queen.
You met your lover 25 days ago.
You sob, the sound unfit for a Tiger, yet you can not help it.
More tear from your throat, guttural and hellish.
You wail, your tears pooling in your paws, drowning what was left of the Wasp.
Your lover's last words haunt you, circling around and around in your head.
'I will find you.' It had said.
'Wait for me.' It has said.
You can't wait.
You need your lover.
You need it's warm words and soft embraces.
You need it's gentle tap, tap, taps on your snout.
You need it's beautiful humming, always an insistent noise, right next to your ears.
You can not live without your lover.
But you can not die either.
The jungle would be left kingless, unsure of where it fits in the world.
You don't know what to do.
Your lover would know exactly what to do.
Your lover is not here anymore.
You weep.
You wail and sob.
Wishing for your lover.
You would do anything for one last glimpse at it's beautiful, lively body.
To watch as those wings of glass and pearl glide through the gentle breeze, caressing you both.
To stare into those eyes once more.
Those big, beautiful, void-like eyes.
Pulling you deeper and deeper and deeper...
You have no place in the world.
You are no king.
You...are nothing.
Not without your lover.
BINABASA MO ANG
The Tiger and it's Lover
PoetryA story of a tiger and it's lover. The cycle of life and it's sad truth.
