A Table For Two

I sit at a table carved for two,
though three chairs breathe in its shadow.
One stands empty —
not from absence,
but from permission.

The invitation once cost nothing.
Now it is written in ash.

I am the head of this table —
not crowned,
but claimed.
My blood sits at the other end,
anchored there like scripture etched in stone.
That seat is eternal.
It does not tremble.

You said you would stop coming —
that eyes upon us drew a line in the sand,
that whispers built walls between us.
You feared the crossing.

Hurt me?
No.
I have swallowed worse than goodbye.

I wear my place like armor,
polished with sacrifice.
But wound my pride —
wound what I guard —
and mercy becomes a language I forget.

When you spoke,
you spoke past me,
yet saw him.
And the tears that fell
were never mine —
they belonged to the one
I would bleed for without question.

You said farewell
while I held the door wide,
hinges crying in protest.

You will not be summoned back.
Not by me.

You chose the leaving.
So if footsteps echo here again,
they will be yours —
hesitant,
uninvited,
waiting for a seat
that may no longer be there