Ghost dog

Found your photo,

yellowed edges curled like dead leaves,

your fur—rough, oily,

still smells like rain-soaked days.

Tongue lolling sideways,

tongue like a tired flag

waving in the wind

of an empty room.

I pressed the picture flat,

tried to catch the slack in your tail,

a weight missing from the floor,

soft paws erased from the tiles.

You’re here, in the silence,

more ghost than flesh,

a flicker in the corner

that never quite fades.