Artwork / family / life / loss / love / Writing

Dog

He died too fast and too soon. Every time I think of him, there is broken glass in the centre of my chest, cutting inward. His energy was so bright and loud and it’s so quiet here now. There’s just this empty space in the house and in my heart. I would never call him fur baby or fur child; I dislike those human labels. He was Dog. An honourable title, a wonderful, magical word that meant love, loyalty, fun, friend. He trusted me until the last moment. His eyes were on mine as he passed; it breaks me in two to remember it. I didn’t know how deep he had dug inside of me, or how much it would hurt when he left.

the trace empty frames work on copy

Empty Frames

What are photos anyway, except
Doorways to what we have left behind.

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2 thoughts on “Dog

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