The Empty Chair at Dusk

The room learns how to fold itself
around the quiet of your absence,
a deliberate softening of edges
where your shadow used to speak.

The evening arrives without urgency,
pouring amber along the bare floorboards,
touching the rim of an unwashed cup
left behind like an unfinished sentence.

How strange it is to watch the dust motes dance
in light that has traveled across galaxies,
only to settle upon a wool sweater
that still smells faintly of cedar and your skin.

I tell myself the silence is an ally,
that grief is merely love with no place to go,
yet when the kettle whistles on the stove,
I still turn to ask if you would like some tea.