Small, thin fingers clutch
Desperately, at the new toy
In a stark gray room.
The color, only accentuated by the emotions
Swirling about within it.
The small fist-sized animal, hard Ty© plush,
With large and accusing, beady eyes,
Plastic and immortal,
Though everything is not.
It’s short fur the color
Of creamy caramel and rich fudge,
Soft but appropriately offensive.
It shouts, as loud as the tornado sirens,
“Meant to be a replacement!
A substitute!”
The eyes of the animal are
Rimmed with, gleaming, argent gold,
Not the pools of calm, calculating green
I so wish to see.
Not the eyes of my furry friend,
My beloved feline companion,
Lost forever, now.
The wrong eyes
Watch, ostracized and alienated from the
Sadness.
It cannot comprehend the vast variety emotions,
It cannot hear the loud sobs,
Or the quiet sniffles.
It cannot smell the sorrow,
Which settles in the hollow house like sand in a barren fish tank,
For it is just a toy.
Just a toy.
It’s name and very identity
Stolen from the cherished predecessor,
Now deceased.
A small squirrel-like toy, designed for bony
Fingers to cling to,
With false hopes.
Heartbreakingly quickly, it becomes soggy,
Dampened and cooled by salty liquid.
Pressed to red cheeks, soaking through.
Now, the brand new toy
Looks weathered, and worn.
Its fur caked with salt and stuck together,
Its plastic eyes clouded with scratches,
The thread at its seams fraying,
The edges roughening to the touch.
As though it were years old,
Instead of days.
It is aged, from the
Relentless crushing in small weak fists,
From the repeated soaking and drying.

It has gone from new to ancient in mere days
Because sorrow is the fastest way to age.