The Weight of Absence

The coffee cup sits where you left it, still holding your fingerprints like a question no one asked.

Outside, the light bends differently— through water, through glass, through the spaces you used to fill.

I've learned the grammar of empty chairs, how silence has a texture, how memory moves like oil on water.

The house reorganizes itself around your absence, furniture remembering the shape of your sitting, walls learning a new kind of echo.

Some mornings I forget you're gone and set two plates. The second one stays clean, like a promise.