The Empty Chair
sits beneath the window where the light
breaks, though the curtains hang so still
they seem a part of the frame. Dust settles
in slow circles, a soft erosion of time,
though the sweatshirt I threw there still smells
of cedar and rain, as if it holds
something alive.
Years ago, I sat beside you,
laughing in the low hum of summer,
before shadows began to gather
and your absence grew like ivy,
rooting itself into corners.
Now, the chair stands bare,
a shape too heavy for the room to carry.
The photograph I left on its seat
is beginning to curl,
its edges lifting like wings
that refuse to take flight.
You smile back at me from another time,
the lines of your face softening,
as if even memory lets go.
The chair doesn’t ask why I rage
at the clocks, why their hands
slice the air like knives.
It doesn’t flinch when I press my fists
to its back,
demanding it give you back to me.
The empty wood holds nothing
but the weight of what’s gone.
And yet, I can’t move it,
can’t leave it untouched,
can’t let it disappear.
Again, the chair waits.
And all I can think of these days
is how to sit in it without breaking.
The dust rises when I brush it away,
never choosing where it lands.
© Lysa Cohen
Lysa Cohen is a poet, teacher, and writer who explores themes of resilience, identity, and the human condition. She holds an M.A. in English and a Ph.D. in Education, experiences that inform her approach to language and writing. She also teaches middle school students the power of words and helps Ph.D. candidates find clarity in their writing. Her current projects include a collection of poems examining life’s quiet transformations and a manuscript of personal essays.
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