The black cat purrs, generates its own kind of luck.

I see you silver, edged in pink,
eyes like a salt-grey sea.
I struggle not to reach for you,
not to gasp for the last tick of breath.

Our late lives close over us,
first in roils, then calmer, in slow waves.
Your perilous eyes look away.

They hunt for a moment,
seek a time superior to now,
a place of equatorial heat,
where life is like being asleep,
only flying.