I still fill your bowl

 I still fill your bowl. I don't even think about it — my hands just do it. Because some habits are built from love, and love doesn't get the memo when everything changes.

I still hesitate at the front door. Still listen for the sound of you coming. But the house just holds its breath now, the way I do.

You were never "just a dog" to anyone who knew what we had. You were the exhale at the end of a hard day. The one who asked for nothing and somehow gave everything. The warmth that made this place feel like home.

We didn't get enough time. We never would have — no matter how many years we'd been given. There were still mornings to sleep through together, still roads we hadn't walked, still quiet evenings I wanted with your weight against my side.

I hold your leash sometimes. Not going anywhere. Just holding it. Because it still feels like a thread between us — and I'm not ready to let go of the other end.

I love you in the present tense. I always will.

You're not here where I can reach you. But you're not gone from me either — not from the deep, permanent parts of me that you shaped.

And when my turn comes, I believe it with everything I have — you'll be there. Bright-eyed. Tail going. Like no time passed at all.

Until then, run easy, my heart.  Every part of me is still yours. Always.