Borrowed Moments

A black cat moves

through temple shadows—

or perhaps

the shadows move through her.

You sit beneath the eaves,

hand extended,

offering time

like a small bowl of water.

She comes,

or you arrive—

it is unclear

which crossing is real.

The moon hangs

without choosing

who it belongs to.

You stroke her fur—

night touching night—

and wonder

who is keeping whom

company.

The temple does not answer.

The bell does not ring.

Two beings pause

in borrowed moments—

and somewhere between

purr and breath,

the question fades,

like footsteps

no one can say

were theirs.