The leopard sits on my dresser

No sharpened claws. No fear of attack. An empty sweater set is all. Petite. Worn. Waiting to be discarded. Or, woven into a painting. Playfully worn as a hat. Patted to bring back a memory or two. This incessant focus on the objects won't last much longer. So, we breathe it in. Breathe it out. Hold hands. Say, " I love you" over and over again. It is all true. Especially to the touch. You can still feel it. But you can't make much sense of it. And all the I love yous won't still the pain. We cringe in her absence. Cry and then go painfully dry.   There is silence on the other end. A few signs, but nothing to hang my hat on. I was hoping for more. But then, I am afraid to let her into my dreams. What would she tell me?  Or, even worse. Maybe she wouldn't tell me. I hold her shoes in my hands. I am holding her feet. I keep hoping. Holding. It is what keeps me going. Knowing that in her darkest moment, she emerged as light. Her feet were left behind.