sleeping on your face’s side, curled, wholesome, or in the middle of the hardwood floor, standing between the counter and the table, watching my movement in the kitchen near the sink, looking back, or arriving at the front door the same moment as the house key.
now our mornings are only heavy sleep. quiet, small moving limbs walk softly across uneven surfaces. cleanliness, unexcitement to arrive home.
in the first few days after, on the blue couch, where the center was still indented from your thin body, weak to lift, then the sound of you jumping on and off the bed in the other room, your paws quiet on carpet, then hardwood, then back to carpet. this wasn’t enough.
our hearts still sewn to your texture. your eyes would squint and your head would sway to feel home.
that morning a few weeks ago, around 5 a.m., when your eyes would always begin to stir restless, you walked on and in between ankles to reach the window beside the bed. you needed to look out at the light to see what you’d missed since moving.