He never sits to put them on anymore. He just stands in the doorway, toes off the heel of one and then the other, and steps out of them mid-stride, still talking, still checking the thing in his hand, and the shoes stay exactly where they landed. Crooked. One tipped on its side.
Laces still tied in the knots his mother taught him, because he stopped untying them years ago and now just crushes the backs down like slippers, and I want to tell him those heels are wearing wrong, they're folding, but he cannot hear the shape of my worry.
They hold the print of him. That is the part I stand over. The insole has gone dark and dented exactly where his weight lives, the ghost of a foot pressed into foam, warm still, I think, though I have no way left to check the warmth of things. When I had feet I never once looked at the inside of a shoe. Why would I. It was just the place my whole day rested.
He carries himself everywhere and calls it nothing. Runs down the stairs two at a time on ankles that simply obey him. Stands on cold tile without flinching because the cold is just a fact and not a treasure. He'll shove these into a bag by the door and forget which day was the last day he wore them.
Wear them out, love. Wear them down to nothing. Scuff the toes, soak them in the rain, leave them wherever they fall.
Every mile in them is a mile you still get to have.