The empty chair still holds its…

The empty chair still holds its shape,
A hollow carved into the air.
Familiar objects, now imbued
With silence, whisper of your touch.
The scent of your old coat, a ghost,
Lingers on the back of the door.
My hand reaches out, a reflex,
To find only polished wood,
Cool and unyielding. The laughter
That once filled these rooms, a phantom echo,
Fades with each passing, quiet dawn.
I trace the lines upon your photograph,
Seeking the light that used to shine
From eyes now closed, forever shut.
This space, once vibrant, now a shrine
To absence, a monument to what
Is gone. The world moves on, indifferent,
While I stand still, tethered to a past
That will not let me go, a weight
That settles deep within my bones.
The clock ticks on, a cruel reminder
Of moments never to be shared again.
Each breath I take, a testament
To life that continues, though mine feels
Diminished, fractured, incomplete.
The echoes of your voice, a soft refrain,
Play in the chambers of my mind,
A bittersweet melody of grief.