Some mornings,
I still hear you—
not in sound,
but in the silence
you used to fill.
You were a rhythm
on the hardwood floor,
a sigh beneath the window,
a heartbeat I didn't know
I had memorized.
Your collar lies in a drawer now,
but I leave it slightly open—
as if memory needs room to breathe.
I walk past the leash,
still coiled like a question,
and for a moment
I forget
you’re not waiting by the door.
Grief is strange—
it sits like a bowl
left out
long after the water's gone,
still expecting the sound
of your tongue lapping life
from the edges.
But some days,
I close my eyes
and there you are,
sunlight on your back,
tail tracing joy
in slow, sweeping arcs.
You were never just a dog.
You were the soft in the day,
the anchor at night,
the silent answer
to things I couldn’t name.
And even now,
you're here—
in the hush,
in the still,
in the space I keep
just for you.