The dog’s breath on the morning windowsill

The photo bends—rusted clip, curled edges,

like the leaf pile she used to burrow into

before the snow took the shape of her paws.

That tilt of her head, ears half-flopped,

a question held longer than the shutter’s blink.

I smell that old attic air, leather crackling

and something like her breath, warm against

the cold glass of the morning windowsill.

Years away, but she licks the silence here,

a ghost’s tongue tracing the cracks where sunlight

falls soft, the way her breath once did.