The empty chair creaks beneath the weight

The empty chair creaks beneath the weight

of years, worn wood like old skin,

a witness to meals filled with silence.

Texts flash like sharp edges,

words I want to cut back, but can’t,

carrying the weight of being first,

the one who carries everything.

Between us, the lines stretch taut,

tense like cracked ice,

but in the quiet, I hesitate,

remembering the times I held us both

and trying not to break.