The Empty Chair

The chair waits.
It breathes in the quiet of the dining room,
its wooden spine stiff with memory,
its seat hollowed by absence,
as if it knows that someone once belonged there.

It remembers the curve of your shoulder,
the weight of your laughter pressing against its frame,
the warmth of your hand brushing the edge
like a fleeting sunbeam.
Now, it sits alone,
listening to the clink of silverware
and the sighs of untouched food,
each bite a confession it can never swallow.

The chair stretches its legs toward the door,
hoping, perhaps, that the echo of your footsteps
might return to fold into its arms.
It aches with patience,
its varnish whispering secrets to the floor,
telling it of conversations that floated
and never landed,
of smiles that once bent the air
and left it trembling with light.

Even the shadows pause here,
curling around the empty frame,
as if the world itself respects the absence,
the quiet grief that drapes over the table
like a soft, unclaimed cloth.

And when the wind slips in through the window,
it whispers to the chair:
“I see you. I remember you.
Hold fast.”
And the chair leans a little,
cradling the emptiness,
bearing it like a sacred weight,
until presence returns,
or until the memory of it
becomes its only companion.

- Khushi Kaul