Little One by Allison Grayhurst

 

 

The baseboard lifted. The light

was absorbed into the carpet. I tried.

I cried when you left me, but it was only

for a year then the drug of your sweetness

reformed into a mild sadness, washing my

nerves with the thin film of egg whites.

I imagined you sleeping curled up by the door. I imagined

your voice in the morning, lonely and frantic for affection.

Those nights when we said our long goodbye – one night

when our eyes met and I thanked you and you thanked me,

was a gift without fault, was your dignified funeral – the rest

was husk, instinct, the result of your physical pain.

The rest when remembered breaks my belief, but then

I know your life was good and I know we had

fifteen years of warm connection,

we had love.

 

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