Ma (間)

The empty has no weight of its own, 

yet it gathers the gravity 

of every missing thing. 

We call it space 

until it refuses to let us move. 

Then we call it longing.

I never knew the burden 

of an empty chair 

until death pulled a man from it.

No one sits there now.

The space remains, 

patient and undisturbed, 

holding the shape of his absence.

They say the empty exists 

so we may appreciate what was 

and imagine what may come. 

Yet this emptiness captures me. 

It finds me wherever I go. 

It creates longing 

and then locks me within it.

Memories once crossed the distance, 

but now they fall short.

The vacant is more than empty.

It binds me to a season 

that no longer exists. 

Where there should be freedom, 

there is captivity. 

Where there should be 

room to breathe, 

I become breathless.

 

My heart is held hostage. 

My mind refuses to move.  

I reach for what was 

and cannot be again.  

Reason eludes me.  

Logic betrays me. 

Understanding abandons me. 

I am lost. 

And the chair remains, 

carrying the unbearable weight 

of nothing at all. 

© Ron Simpson Jr. 

October 14, 2026