How I know you are not here

Your seat is empty.

That is how I know you are not here anymore.

I come home, to you, every time. Only this time was I greeted by whimpering cries, by pleas that would never be answered. They embrace me so tight, they tell me you are gone, they remind me that I was not there. I was not there when you needed me. The realisation hits me like a bang, the way you shut a door close that even the faintest thud would shake you to your core. You said your goodbyes, you asked me to take care of myself and I just would not listen. I did not say mine. My sister tells me of how you thought they deprived you of me when I left to study, that you were worried about me being away and alone. I remember the poetic lines you used to recite to me, and how you would ask me about them days after and I would not remember. But I can clearly remember the way you wrote specific lines in your handwriting and gave me small pieces of paper to hold on to. I wish I was smart enough to keep them.. I miss you.