Empty Chair

There's an empty chair
Whenever you're not there.
And all I dare
Is to sit and stare
At the empty chair.

Yesterday... and the day before... and the day before that, there was a shirt draped over the chair. It was your shirt and your sock. Every time I looked at them... or happened to glance over... or walk by for whatever reason, I would think of you.

At first it was comforting, as if the shirt was telling me that you might show up at any moment to claim it. And for a while it echoed the promise of necessary interactions with you.

But soon, as the days stretched on, it became a sore. Your shirt began to taunt me. It told me that you didn't care enough to return for it... or to visit me. It reminded me that you'd been gone for so long... with little (if any) intentional communication. It haunted me daily... and sometimes by the hour.

So today I gave it back. I ignored the temptation to keep it as an insurance policy of a return visit. I wanted the haunting remnant to be removed from my sight. I longed for a sanctuary free from inducers of fruitless thoughts of you.

You were grateful as usual. You thanked me for cleaning one shirt, but I would have gladly done all of your chores.

Then tonight, upon my return home, there was an empty chair where your shirt had been... and the emptiness haunted me even more. So I fear that I cannot remove you, no matter how hard I try.

There was a sock in our dryer, and a lonely one on your dresser. I returned your sock to its match, but its as if I'm still in the dryer... wondering if you could... possibly... someday... ever be lonely for me.