Unused medicine; discarded. Warriors of which too much was asked; depleted from their unsuccessful battle. Defeated soldiers angrily rejected, serving only as bitter reminders of loss.
Registration disc; recently renewed, now junk-draw relic. Resting with dead batteries and rubber bands, gently mocking in bright blue optimism.
Food dish and bed; unmoved. Small. Too heavy to lift. A cat has eaten the remaining food.
Backdoor; silent. I look up, anticipating the scratch, indication you want to come in. You are not there anymore.
The back yard is too empty now.
This was surprisingly hard to write. I think I gave myself a headache.