Scar Tissue

With the prick of a needle time stood still for Pilot. Her neck fur golden and thick where I nuzzled for the last time. Her warmth, her spirit, brushing by my cheek, escaping through my finger tips. Moments of quiet past words. Absence.

​Standing near, my center went weightless,
like nothing I’ve ever felt. As if 45lbs. of Pilot, once curled up and tucked into my chest,
chin to groin, was sliced out of me. From my gut, my core, the center of me. The lightest
of tender carvings, from my very being. 
​When her moment came, Pi re-claimed the soul-jewel that my being coveted, held deep and dear. And she spirited away the part of me that belonged to her and only her; removed, scooped out, silently lifted away. 
​A love-ectomy. She cannot fold back into me. ​
​
Pilots fly. And so must she.
To her next self. 
​To another state of being.
​Perhaps to another being. 
​Bring your next 'someone'
​what you brought me Pi.
​Fly my Pi. Fly. Soar.