Empty Seat Next To Me

I hate that I feel this low,

drenched in the silence you left behind.

Out with my friends,

and there’s an empty seat where you’d be—

cracking jokes,

making everyone feel like they belonged.

I went to a bar today,

the kind you would’ve loved—

dim lights, strong drinks,

virtual game simulators and good vibes.

I could almost hear you say,

“This place is pretty cool. Let's come back.”

I smiled at a memory

that hurt to touch.

I hate that I miss the good parts—

the warmth, the comfort,

the way we felt like home in a world that never slowed down.

I hate that they still visit me,

uninvited,

when all I want is peace.

But I hate more

the way you twisted love into confusion—

how you needed control

more than you needed healing.

How I stayed,

hoping softness would teach you safety.

And I hate

that I might spend a lifetime

remembering the version of us that never could survive.

I wonder if anyone else

could ever love me in that same rare way

without breaking me too.

Because even now,

through all the wreckage—

I miss what we had,

and I mourn what we didn’t.

~rmc