I might be reading this wrong, but it feels like you're saying love survived somewhere outside of time. Is that what you mean?
The Last Seat Beside You
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There is a chair the world forgot to move, still waiting by the window where your silence learnt my name. Dust has become the gentlest thing that ever stayed with me; people, unlike dust, always…
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I might be reading this wrong, but it feels like you're saying love survived somewhere outside of time. Is that what you mean?
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There is a chair the world forgot to move,
still waiting by the window where your silence learnt my name.
Dust has become the gentlest thing that ever stayed with me;
people, unlike dust, always discover how to leave.
I have carried your absence
the way old stations carry the echo of departed trains—
never asking them to return,
only remembering the weight of their farewell.
They say time is a faithful surgeon.
Mine stitched the wound with invisible thread,
so no one could admire the scar,
yet every heartbeat still tears it open.
The cruellest loneliness is not an empty room.
It is laughing at a crowded table
while searching every unfamiliar face
for the one that no longer belongs to the earth beside yours.
Some nights I envy the rain.
It is allowed to fall without apology.
I learnt to become a man,
which often meant learning how to bleed without witnesses.
And perhaps women know another sorrow:
to leave fragments of themselves
inside those who never noticed
they were carrying entire galaxies in gentle hands.
If love survives anywhere,
it is not in promises, rings, or photographs.
It survives in the foolish habit
of turning towards an empty place
as though someone might still be there.
Should you ever remember me,
do not remember my voice.
Remember the silence after it,
for that is where I hid everything
I never found the courage to say.
One day another stranger will sit beside the window.
The chair will not know our names.
The dust will not tell our story.
Yet somewhere beyond the reach of clocks,
every soul we failed to keep
still walks beside us—
quietly, lovingly,
like a train forever arriving
at a station that exists only in the heart.
Thoughts
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The woman leaving fragments of herself in people who don't notice, does that feel like loss or like a kind of immortality?
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Grief and tenderness toward the grief, both at once. That's the balance you captured here.
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I might be reading this wrong, but it feels like you're saying love survived somewhere outside of time. Is that what you mean?
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Is the person who's gone someone you actually knew, or is the poem about losing someone you never got to have in the first place?
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The line about turning toward an empty place as though someone might still be there. That's what faith is, I think.
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There's something about this that reminds me of praying to someone you know isn't listening anymore. The ritual stays even after the reasons change.
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The part about laughing at a crowded table while searching for one face that's gone. That's the specific kind of loneliness nobody talks about.
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When you say dust is the gentlest thing that stayed, do you mean it's gentle because it doesn't judge, or because it doesn't leave?
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