Mourning You

You
are like putting a fitted sheet on a bed,
only to find out that instead of a queen size
it is that of a European pillowcase;
square, and a struggle no matter how hard I try

I
am like my cat, licking the windowsill and glass,
impervious to the frivolity that is those actions,
as she will never be able to reach the sun
and the stars, and the fresh air she longs for

I've been told
that a poem is like your most personal diary,
even if it is a jumble of thoughts,
as though coming from your subconscious.
So that begs the question:

What are you,
to me?

And what happened
to us?