A Different Morning

The space by the open window remains vacant,
where he daily peered through its glass,
his head between the opening.

It’s 5 am, but the corridor is empty.
He is not there to brush his hairy body
between my legs.

I have breakfast, his remains untouched.
He enjoyed ambling first in the cool breeze
before the sun colors the sky.

I tackle the day’s tasks but his absence
keeps popping up like the sun's light disrupted
by the window's metal frames.

By 9 am, as I inspect the van's wheels,
I recall finding him here lying dead,
like a forgotten stuffed toy,

eyes wide open like mine.