Traces

It’s a comfort thing really,

the ever-present s c a t t e r i n g,

the s p i l l of dry pellets 

around the bowl.

I stood on a few on my way out,

the crunchy food crumbled under my soles and 

I laughed to myself,

I’ll clean it up later.

I always say it.

Except I won’t.

Just like I won’t hoover up every last hair,

despite the vacuum’s efforts,

they’re embedded in the carpet,

hidden beneath your toys, stuck to your blanket,

tidying them up would leave the room bare because

it’s your home too,

my Companion,

and I love the traces

that you were

there.