Presence of Absence
The chair sits empty, yet it breathes,
A ghost of warmth the silence weaves.
The pen lies still, its ink long dry,
But I can hear his lists nearby.
The bed is hollow, sheets grown cold,
Yet stories linger, quietly bold.
The voice is gone, the laughter hushed,
But echoes rise where time has crushed.
I miss the hand that held my own,
The anchor lost, the light outshone.
Yet every wall, each room, each space,
Still carries fragments of his face.
He is nowhere, the world is bare,
Yet everywhere, I find him there.
In memory’s weight, in sorrow’s art,
He lives unbroken in my heart.
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