I found the armchair wedged beneath old blankets—

I found the armchair wedged beneath old blankets—

mothballs blooming like slow regrets.

Leather cracked and stiff,

her handprint still faint in the crease,

pressed like a question I can’t answer.

The springs groan under me,

living ghosts wrapped in threadbare fabric,

a quiet ache in the dust.

It holds the shape of waiting,

and the shape of leaving,

all squeezed into one tired seat.

I settle in anyway,

but the cushion sighs,

as if remembering

I don’t.