An empty chair in the room,
which once held the gentle laugh
of his blue-eyed gal,
gone wandering amongst the stars.
Vacant stare gripped the chair,
willing her to fill his wishes.
She laid the blueprints for their life,
oblivious of stolen time.
Damaged womb, refused to conceive
their combined good, bad, and mediocrity.
But his life was full with his
dark haired lover turned white,
wrinkles—marks of memories.
Each day he made the venture
in a romantic haze,
guided along the eager river’s edge.
Regardless of the time of year,
bloated earth squished
underneath his worn-out shoes.
a stem without its petals.
Up the hill, she lay in wait
for his call home.
Animated about nothing—
he nodded, talked of what
she missed that day,
then whispered a love song only
understood by misplaced spirits.
Evenings were a simple formality,
TV dinner in front of the news.
Their bed grew in size
while his body shriveled,
chanting her name
toward the missing indentation.
Memories sprouted within his dreams
of the woman who shared
her poetic escapades.
In the darkest of hours,
a reprieve from the empty chair.
I wrote this poem about 4-years ago, so it needs some work. Chime in and let me know!
Poetry and Love,