The Empty Chair

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I wrote this one on a regular afternoon when my wife was travelling. Nothing dramatic happened – I just made coffee and sat down and realised I didn’t know what to do with myself. The house was the same as always, everything in its place, but it felt off somehow. Like the room had lost its frequency. That feeling of her not being physically there, not being able to reach out and touch her – that’s what I needed to say out loud.

the afternoon light comes in the same way,
the ceiling fan turns at the same speed,
i make coffee for one and watch the steam rise,
the kitchen smells like always;

her side of the table is just a chair now,
no sound of her moving in the next room,
no voice cutting through the silence,
just the hum of the fridge doing its job;

i pick up my phone and put it down,
not because there is nothing to say,
but because i don’t know how to start,
so i don’t;

i keep reaching for something that is not there,
the way you reach for a light switch in the dark,
just muscle memory,
a life built around her;

tonight i will eat too little and sleep on my side,
i will leave her pillow exactly where it is,
and lie there listening to the city outside,
counting the hours like they owe me something;