You move like smoke with a plan,
silent swagger, soft as jam.
One blink and you’ve mapped the room
the angles, exits, places to bloom.

Tail up like a question mark,
you patrol the kitchen in the dark.
Nothing gets past your velvet tread,
not the fridge hum, not the creeping thread.

You nap like it’s performance art,
a masterclass in slowing heart.
Sprawled in sunspots, limbs akimbo,
you’ve got that do-nothing glow, that limbo.

You chase dust like it owes you money,
then bat a pen off the edge so funny.
We pretend to scold, but let’s be real:
you run the place with your four-pawed zeal.

Those eyes? Twin moons with ancient codes.
That stare? A riddle in stealth mode.
You don’t do fetch, or “roll,” or “stay”
you’re freelance. You vibe your own way.

At 3am, you’re in full sprint,
tearing through rooms like a caffeine hint.
Then you curl up like a comma, chill,
next to my laptop proof of will.

Oh feline god of “don’t care much,”
yet crave my lap, my voice, my touch.
You’re chaos and comfort, claws and calm,
a tiny storm curled in my palm.

So here’s to you—my roommate, muse,
the one who naps while I hit snooze.
No leash, no rules, no final say
just you, just here, just everyday.