The Empty Chair

An ode to love and loss in the twilight years

In the quiet of the morning, before the world awakes, 
He sits in a chair; that’s his now to take. 
The cushion still holds her shape, just faint. 
A soft reminder of love now turned faint.

He brews the coffee just the way she would. 
Two spoons of sugar, as she liked it, were good. 
But it’s bitter now, on his lonely tongue. 
The sweetness of life seems forever unsung.

The house is too big; the rooms echo loud, 
With memories of laughter and love, once proud. 
Her voice in the hallway, her steps on the stair, 
He turns to the shadows, but she’s not there.

The garden is wild, the flowers overgrown, 
Once her pride and joy now left alone. 
He kneels in the soil, with hands grown weak, 
But without her guidance, the blooms seem bleak.

The nights are the hardest, the silence a weight, 
He reaches across to her empty slate. 
The sheets cold and barren, no warmth by his side, 
No gentle whisper, no place to confide.

Her photos stare back, from the walls and the frames, 
Each one a chapter in their shared games. 
He smiles at their story, at the love that they knew, 
But the ending was sudden, too harsh, too true.

He wanders through rooms with no purpose, no plan, 
Just an old man lost, where dreams began. 
The echoes of her laughter, now ghosts in the hall, 
He tries to move forward, but he stumbles and falls.

The neighbours pass by, with their sympathy eyes, 
But they can’t see the pain that inside him lies. 
He nods and he smiles, puts on a brave face, 
But inside, he’s a man who’s lost his place.

He talks to her still, in the dead of the night, 
As if she could hear him, as if it’s alright. 
He tells her his fears, his hopes, his despair, 
But the air is too thick, too heavy to bear.

His children call, but they don’t understand, 
They’ve got their own lives, their own plans. 
They visit sometimes, but it’s not the same, 
The house feels empty after they came.

He’s tired of pretending, of saying he’s fine, 
Of hiding the sorrow that is now his design. 
He longs for the day when he’ll see her once more, 
When he’ll walk through that final, familiar door.

But until then, he’s just passing through, 
A man with a love that nobody knew. 
The world moves on, as it always will, 
But he’s stuck in the past, in a moment, still.

So he sits in his chair, as the sun fades away, 
Lost in the memory of a brighter day. 
And he waits for the night to take him home, 
To the arms of the woman he’s always known.

---

Thanks for reading…

If you enjoyed reading my poem, please highlight any parts you think other readers would find interesting.

A couple of claps 👏 wouldn’t go amiss, either.

Don’t forget to leave your comments about what you thought of this story.

Consider following me here on Medium and subscribing to my stories.