126 N First St by Jo Rosenthal

‍

‍

126 N First St

‍

I still find traces of you in quiet corners—
a warmth left behind in the folds of blankets,
a softness that clings to my sweaters and sleeves.

‍
I see you in light that pools on the floor,
curled up small, as if woven from sunbeams,
watching the world through half-lidded eyes.

‍
In the evening, shadows stir, just so—
a flicker, a shape slipping just out of view,
like you’re still here, moving room to room.

‍
It’s quieter now, the house stretched and empty,
no small sighs, no gentle thuds from the dark.
How strange to feel such a loss, so sharp—

‍
for a whiskered wanderer named Kimbo.

‍