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Thats his chair,
over there.
But he isn't sitting in it.
Not anymore.

Thats his chair,
over there.
Growing dust and fading in,
with his once grey hair.

I see his picture in the wall,
calling out to the little girl.
'Sit there, child, whats mine is yours'
but i don't. Thats his chair.

Thats his chair,
over there.
The one where he grew old.
Thats the chair,
over there.
The one where he grew cold.

If I sit,
and make the memories mine,
what if I steal his?
And his memories die?

Thats his chair,
over there.
The one where I don't go.
It sits there, empty, alone.

But his eyes tell me truth,
as they speak to my heart.
That's not his chair anymore.
It's ours.

Thats his chair,
over the one.
Thats his chair,
and mine to share.

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