Don’t stare at me with your eyes clouded over.

You accuse me, though you speak no word: I can feel it in that look you give me. You wanted tears, and I understand; you deserve more grief than what I have offered.

But it wasn’t all my fault.

I begged. I pleaded with you. I rocked you against me and we shook with my dry sobs. But you wouldn’t hear me; you wouldn’t accept my bribes, my bargains. You wouldn’t come back for that new woolen mat I rushed out to get you, hoping to buy your health with gifts, a promise. You turned up your nose at the piles of treats I went through pains to pick out.

You merely sat at your place by the window, denting the cushions and watching the yard. Waiting.

Maybe you wanted to leave me, and I hope you’re happy. But you stare nevertheless, creeping into my silences and filling my head with your scent. You sit by the window, though you have left long ago.

I didn’t cry on the trip back, I admit, and perhaps you begrudge me that luxury. I could summon no tears during that first night alone. You watched my face for stains of sorrow, but you overlooked the sleepless shade of my eyes. The way my hands trembled against the coffee maker.

You marvel at my calm – your stare says it all. But how can I grieve for something as permanent as your shadow?

You study me as vigilantly as the sun, but I manage to slip through your cracks some days. The way is crisp and unfamiliar, and I find myself standing by your place, blinking out the window. I shiver despite the bright afternoon air, swivel for a doorway out of that naked room.

And I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I really am.

But I broke down when I saw the paw-print etched into your cushions.