There’s an empty chair in the corner still,
it creaks like it’s waiting, quiet and ill.
No one’s sat there since the thunder night,
when she screamed in colors
that swallowed the light.
They took her shoes but not her name,
left behind the air and blame.
The dust still settles like it knows
she’s gone–but not too far to show.
I swear sometimes I see her shift,
the shadow leans, the curtain lifts.
And someone hums that crooked tune,
the one she sang to quiet the room.
Empty chair, don’t stare like that–
like you’re holding her laugh
in your splintered back.
I hear the ghost in the floorboards swear
that nothing leaves the empty chair.
They locked her file, changed her chart,
but you can’t discharge a shattered heart.
I still bring her tea at six-oh-three,
and pour a second cup for me.
Sometimes the cup moves when I don’t blink,
sometimes the lightbulb winks in sync.
And I wonder if she’s sitting near–
that shadow love in the empty chair.
I won’t forget, I won’t repair,
I’ll just wait with the empty chair.
When they ask, I say I’m fine–
but we both know
she still sits sometimes.