The Chair.

I hate that the chair that used to hold the world is now cold and empty.

A thin layer of dust has formed on the seat, but I can't seem to clean it off.

"Dust won't form if you use the chair."

I can't use the chair, it's not mine to sit in.

Part of me hopes that if I look over at the chair, you would be sitting in it.

You're not coming back, meaning you're not using the chair,

Even though you're not coming back, I can't seem to fill your spot.

I guess it'll continue to collect dust.