An empty chair by the window waits,

Its wood worn smooth by years of use,

Once occupied by a soul now gone,

The silence echoing a haunting muse.

The garden blooms with roses bright,

Yet the fragrance feels a shade too light,

For hands that tended with gentle care,

Are absent from the morning air.

Photographs in dusty frames,

Tell stories that have lost their flames,

Faces smiling from another time,

Hold memories that fail to rhyme.

The clock ticks on, relentless, sure,

A reminder of what was, and what endures,

But in the space where laughter lived,

Only echoes of sorrow give.

A book lies open on the floor,

Its pages turning nevermore,

The words once whispered, soft and sweet,

Now float like ghosts on silent feet.

Each corner of this hollow home,

Whispers tales of the alone,

For loss has settled in each room,

Turning light to heavy gloom.

Yet somewhere in the stillness lies,

A promise that the heart defies,

That love, though distant, remains near,

In every tear, in every fear.

The empty chair will always be,

A monument to memory,

A place where grief and hope can meet,

In the shadow of love’s retreat.