Thinking of Her

I do not speak of her.

Or type of her.

Or write of her.

I only ever think about her.

I can’t stop that, not on the lonely nights, when my feet are cold without the furry warmth.

I always think of her when I look at the clean floor around me.

I always hated the mess of tabby fur on my floor, but it feels sickly clean without it.

My windchimes remind me of her.

I made them out of her old, belled collors that she bit and clawed.

Everytime I heard footsteps on the hardwood floor of my house, I reminded myself that they couldn’t belong to her.

Not to mention the emtiness of the corner that once held her litterbox.

Emty, too empty.

Yet, full.

I had been filled with the love and compasion of people.

I would always miss and love her, but I now know I can’t cling to another species, not for all that.

I relied on my pet to much.

I supose the most horible things happen for a reason.