Part of my love will remain
like the family dog by its home,
Mournful eyes trained on the door,
its tail thumps at every movement
that could speak to hope--
the silent prayer that it was not left,
surely not sentenced to
being utterly unwanted.
If its eyes could water, spill over in sorrow,
The floor is cold in the lonely dark,
and the shadows of the moon
bring painful memories to the deserted;
an echo of warmth that once was known.
With a tired whine that stirs the dust,
it settles into half-hallucinations that
the branches pawing at the window are keys in a lock,
and it aches to be remembered and reclaimed.
It struggles to realize that
in the eyes of its owners old,
it outgrew their love and was
no longer wanted.
No amount of howling will bring them back.