There are the little moments in the kitchen that hurt like a hundred tiny cuts. Sharing my avocado, giving you pieces of the chicken. Or the bits of broth. Those things now go in the trash. They don't give you happiness and delight, which in turn gave me happiness and delight. The loss of those moments, is a void. It's worse than a void, it's a loss.
I sit at my dining room table. I eat alone. I think about you on your journey. I'm eating for you. The chicken, the avocado, the cheese. Things you loved. Things I loved. Things I loved the more because they were things we shared loving.
I think about another dog, who might not like avocado so much. I'll have to learn a whole new person trapped in fur. They won't be like you. I don't want to do that.
I'm thinking about my heart. It's bruised. I touch it in my mind, but it's too fragile even for that. It's just there, suspending in Alex Grey space. I can see it's neon outline pulsing in no-space.
All I can do is breathe. Stand here trapped in time, and all these emotions. Like looking at the departure board at a busy STL in the 90s.
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