The empty chair waits,
but it does not wait alone
for hungry plates and untarnished silverware
sit by sets of thirsty glasses
at place settings who ring tables
echoing with the half-remembered laughter
of a family that gave up long ago.

I’ve long-since found
my happiness in things:
bigger and better,
novel and new.

Now I find myself
lamenting the absence
of meaningful things
like friends and confidants.

The few I’ve found
have wilted in my hands
until all that remains
are silence and an echo.

All of the “Why?”s haunt me
from my quiet phone and calendar.