126 N First St

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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—

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for a whiskered wanderer named Kimbo.

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