What if someone died?

What if someone died, and the chair still sat there, quiet?
The cup goes cold on the table like it forgot the plan.
The door stays half open, like a mouth that didn’t finish the word.
The air feels heavy, the clock doing tiny clicks, not asking me anything.
I stand in the doorway, my hoodie too big for my bones.
I don’t know where to put my hands, so I hide them again.

What if someone died, and a joke stayed stuck in the room?
No one laughs, and it feels wrong to push it away.
The plant by the window keeps leaning toward light like it knows a way out.
The floor remembers where two feet used to go and stops me there.
A spoon taps the sink like a tiny knock that won’t give up.
I make tea and forget to drink it, like I’m scared to taste the day.

What if someone died, and the phone still buzzed like nothing changed?
Names show up, like they don’t know what just happened in this house.
I type “hey” and erase it, then type nothing and stare.
I think “idk,”¹ then delete that too and close my eyes.
The wall goes blurry till it feels like it’s breathing back at me.
Silence gets loud, a train that keeps passing and never ends.

What if someone died, and one plate stayed clean?
The salt sits by the plate like it doesn’t know what changed.
A door clicks shut on its own, no wind, just habit.
Footsteps upstairs are only pipes and heat.
I sit on the floor and tie and untie the same knot.
The fridge hums a tired song I don’t finish.

What if someone died, and the day kept moving without asking?
Rain drums on the street, tiny hands knocking everywhere.
Puddles copy the trees and then break when I step wrong.
Leaves stick to my shoe like notes I can’t read yet.
I keep them anyway, just in case they say something later.
I want a word that doesn’t hurt when it touches my mouth.

What if someone died, and it wasn’t a lesson or a rule?
Not a big speech, just a hole where a person used to sit.
I sit by the hole and call it a bench so I can stay.
I put my poems there like folded paper for a quiet friend.
If someone finds them, maybe they’ll know the shape I mean.
Not the hole, but the missing, the whole of the missing, held soft.

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