Whispers of a Love Lost

I still set the table for two,

though the chair across from me holds only air.

It feels wrong to take away its place,

as if erasing it would erase you too.

The clock still ticks, but time stands still—

it no longer moves the way it used to.

Once, it danced between our laughter,

now it lingers in the hush between my breaths.

I water the plants you once loved,

the ones you swore had souls of their own.

You said they listened when we spoke,

and maybe that’s why they haven’t bloomed since you left.

Some days, I swear I hear your footsteps,

soft against the wooden floor.

I turn, expecting to see you there,

but it’s just the wind, playing tricks on ghosts.

I wear the sweater you left behind,

the one that still holds the scent of rain and home.

It doesn’t fit the way it used to—

neither does the world without you in it.

If I could, I’d bottle time,

hold it tight in trembling hands.

I’d pour it out like golden sand,

just enough to bring you back again.

But love, I know—goodbye is final.

No matter how many times I whisper your name,

no matter how often I reach for your hand

in the space where you used to be.

And yet, I still set the table for two,

because letting go feels heavier than keeping you close.

Because love doesn’t die with the body—

it lingers, it waits, it stays.

Even when you don’t.

Did this touch your heart? Let me know if you'd like another one. ❤️