My cat’s gone.
He’s not at the end of the bed, the bottom left corner on the duvet, where he’s supposed to be.
He’s not in the bathroom, on the counter so I can see him from the shower.
He’s not downstairs, begging for water for the sink.
Not under the table laying in the sun by the back door.
He’s not on the edge of couch, though he hasn’t sat there for a while now.
I hope he’s not hurting anymore.
I hope he knows we won’t forget him, or replace him.
That he’s irreplaceable.
I hope he doesn’t know that I’ll never fully heal, that it’s so hard to be here without him.
That I can’t move anything he touched.
I hope he knows the worst part was leaving him there, because he’s supposed to be at home.
He’s supposed to be with me, curled up on my lap or under my arm, or at the bottom left corner of my bed, on the duvet.
