Process (poem)

Not ready after all, but, I keep typing:

leaves leaving trees
falling to death and darkness.

A smoke-colored cat chases her tail
and I bend down to say,
Do you think you're a dog?
She looks confused,
like the person she is not.

I'm not going anywhere with this,

unless I go with you, because I love you
like something the ocean does; and, I think
I'll stick with this matter. Keeping beat,
persistent--until my words cause me to choke
on the syllables of obsession.

Look at me wield weepy fingers to make these words.
And attention, attention, attention, until,
I am the most unbearable person.
But,
Still--