The strange thing is

 The strange thing is...

I still feel your warmth.
Not the kind that comes from sunlight.
Not the kind that comes from a blanket wrapped around my shoulders.
Your warmth.
The one that used to curl up beside me on difficult days.
The one that somehow made every room feel safer.
The one that turned an ordinary couch into my favorite place in the world.
You're gone.
I know you are.
I know because your bed sits empty.
Because your bowl stays full until I remember why.
Because there are no paws following me through the house anymore.
And yet...
there are moments when the warmth remains.
I'll be sitting quietly...
lost in a memory.
And suddenly...
something soft settles over my heart.
Like a familiar comfort.
Like a gentle reminder.
Like love reaching back.
I think that's what happens when someone loves us as completely as you did.
They leave behind more than memories.
They leave behind warmth.
A warmth that lingers in the corners of a home.
In old photographs.
In favorite blankets.
In every place where they once felt loved.
Sometimes I still sit in your spot on the couch.
Not because I expect anything to happen.
But because somehow...
it still feels like you.
Like a piece of your love soaked into the fabric and decided to stay.
And maybe that's exactly what happened.
Maybe love leaves traces.
Not just in our hearts...
but in the spaces it once filled.
So when the world feels cold...
when grief feels heavier than I can carry...
I close my eyes.
And I remember your head resting against me.
Your steady breathing.
Your quiet presence.
And somehow...
the warmth returns.
Not enough to erase the missing.
Not enough to bring you back.
But enough to remind me that love doesn't disappear when a heartbeat stops.
It remains.
Gentle.
Faithful.
Enduring.
Just like you.
Gone from my arms...
but still warming my heart.
And maybe...
that's one more way love refuses to leave.