A trail of rubber remnants maps
our living room like breadcrumbs left.
Blue bear missing an ear, pink pig
split down its round seam.
This is how I find her,
unraveling stories through her teeth.
A detective with no magnifying glass,
only patience and a broom.
She leaves her laughter everywhere:
squeaks trapped in punctured plastic,
fragments of fluff in corners,
the silent symphony of her joy.
What it is to love something
and still tear it apart—
to carry pieces in your jaw,
to shake the world until it gives.
I don’t mind the mess.
Call it a map, a love letter,
the rhythm of her care.
Each chewed toy, a trust she’s given.
Her chaos sings soft in the dusk.
Her trust, unsaid, anchors it all.