The chair where you sat is still warm,
but the room has forgotten your voice.
The echoes have softened into dust,
settling in corners I cannot reach.
The morning does not knock the same way.
Its light does not ask for permission,
only spills itself across the floor,
searching for you.
Your name lingers in my throat,
a letter left unsent.
I fold it, once, twice—
but where could it go?
The streets carry on, unburdened.
Even the train you took does not look back.
Only I remain,
watching the last light fade,
pretending it might return.