You would shed everywhere.
The tufts of fur clinging to the carpet
where your skin found fresh pieces of irritation
from unknown allergens,
and I would keep you
from piercing your flesh
so you wouldn’t mow your skin.
Golden fur glued to my black leggings,
Always.
Even after you were gone.
I still catch a few strands on my socks,
just an irritant
until it added a shattering reminder
that you are not here
because those few strands are not enough.