Love, before loss, is an ode to here:
the softness of shampooed fur,
the quickening of a thousand nerve endings
in each fingertip each time you pet him,
the scratch of paws running to greet you.
After, you walk into your office and find
his bed still holds the impression of him.
You hold your breath. Turn down the air.
Tiptoe out into the hall and down the stairs
he would follow you down even if you promised
you'd be right back. You step into the sunlit
yard, where he would nap until he was panting
in that way that radiated happiness.
Kneeling in his favorite spot, it hits you:
here has given way to not-here
like a stick of butter melted in the pan,
the air gone heavy—
burned and sweet.
