by Linda Batey

Created on: April 01, 2008

His Chair

Weary with age, seat worn and tired,
Armrests sprouting prickly stuffing.
Scents of him in the fabric as tears sting my eyes
Remembering.

The corner of the room would be so bare
If I moved it.
I miss him so much and his chair reminds me
Of how he moved me.

If I close my eyes in the darkness,
I still see him sitting there.
I inhale his scent
Remembering.

The pain is raw; icy as it grips my heart.
He's gone. I'm gone.
I can't bear to sit there,
It will always be his chair.

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