The chair still sits beside the fire,
A wooden throne, a space entire.
It holds the shape where he once read,
The weight of all the words he said.

The books remain upon the shelf,
The lessons learned, the quiet self.
His glasses rest, untouched, alone,
A memory cast in brittle stone.

The scent of pipe smoke lingers near,
A ghostly trace of yesteryear.
And though the voice has long since stilled,
The chair remembers, and it’s filled.

With echoes soft, with warmth still near,
With love that time could not clear.
Though life moves on, though rooms may change,
The chair remains, the love remains.