Empty Sofa

I put out my hand, as if to find

The warmth of his, a weathered kind,

But grasp only grains, like fleeting years,

A beach of memories, dimmed with tears.

I reach for clouds, a distant white,

Like his silver hair in fading light,

But touch only mist, a chilling breath,

The empty sky, a space of death.

I put out my hand, to the empty air,

Where he would sit, on the sofa there,

But feel only cold, a vacant place,

An absent smile, a missing face.

He pressed his chest, a breath held tight,

And brushed it off, with all his might.

"A simple ache," was all he'd say,

Oblivious, I turned back to my day.

Seven-thirty, the morning stilled,

A walk cut short, a life unfulfilled.

He'd stretched each dawn, a vibrant soul,

Then silence fell, beyond control.

A year has passed, the seasons turn,

But in my heart, the embers burn,

The world moves on, at its own pace,

But he remains, in his special place.

And the void he left, stays with me.