A Dod Named Tension

 

I had a dog named Tension once,  

she was a gift from my ex-wife.  

Her fur bristled like unsaid things,  

eyes sharp as broken promises.  

She would sit at the door waiting,  

always expecting the worst news.  

 

At night, she curled beside me, tense,  

her breath heavy, full of doubt.  

She gnawed at the bone of silence,  

leaving marks on everything I touched.  

Even in sleep, her muscles twitched,  

ready to flee from whatever came next.  

 

She followed me room to room, pacing,  

her nails tapping out accusations.  

I tried to calm her with soft words,  

but she only listened to the past.  

The leash was never quite enough,  

always pulling, always taut.  

 

When I opened the door one morning,  

she ran, tearing into the distance.  

I watched her disappear in the fog,  

the weight of her absence remained.  

She was never truly mine to keep,  

just another gift I couldn't return.