The Empty Frame That Speaks

We live surrounded by objects that hold stories—sometimes they whisper, sometimes they scream. This is the story of a broken dresser and how its empty frame forced me to confront something deeper: the search for a reflection that feels real.

I’ve been living in this old villa for a while now. It’s a large place, full of rooms that stay mostly empty. Sometimes I feel like I’m sharing the space with nothing but my own echo. A little while ago, I decided to bring in some new furniture to make it feel like home. The only problem was that the city, where I ordered everything, is far away. By the time the pieces arrived, some of them were damaged.

One particular piece—a dresser—came with a big hole where the mirror should have been. The mirror broke during the long trip, and when a carpenter came to check it out, he said he’d fix it. He took measurements and promised he’d return with a new mirror. But after two visits and no real fix, I still have this dresser sitting in my living room. It’s basically just a frame now, an empty space waiting to be filled.

For weeks, I barely noticed it. Life got busy, and I moved on to other things. But the more I ignored it, the dustier it got. It stood there, quiet and incomplete, becoming a daily reminder of something missing. It’s strange—this piece of furniture was meant to show me my own face, to reflect who I am. But instead, it ended up reminding me that sometimes in life, we feel like we’re missing pieces of ourselves too.

Today, I finally approached the dresser again. I gently wiped away the dust with my hand, and for a brief moment, I swear it felt like the empty frame “spoke” to me. Of course, it didn’t say anything out loud—it might have just been the sunlight hitting the wood at a certain angle, or maybe I was just imagining things. But that feeling stuck with me. It made me think about how we all have these gaps in our lives where something important should be, but isn’t. Maybe it’s a broken dream, a lost opportunity, or a part of ourselves we can’t quite recognize anymore.

This feeling inspired the poem I shared earlier. It’s about identity, emptiness, and those quiet, haunted spaces inside us that sometimes speak louder than words. Who knew a broken piece of furniture could stir up so many thoughts?

Maybe one day I’ll get the dresser fixed. Maybe I’ll finally see my reflection looking back at me. Until then, the empty frame remains a sort of silent storyteller, reminding me—and maybe all of us—that even missing pieces have something to say. They tell us that what’s gone still matters and that what we’re searching for might still show up in time.

Sometimes, the mirrors we expect to show us who we are… don’t. Sometimes, absence speaks louder than any reflection ever could. And maybe—just maybe—being haunted by what’s missing is how we remember we’re still searching... still becoming.

The Missing Reflection

I stand in front of that damned dresser—

Where a mirror should be, there’s just a hollow frame,

A gaping mouth that refuses to speak my name.

I thought I’d see my face, something to prove I’m still real,

But all I get is black wood, splinters, and a vacant seal.

I paid good money, hoping a reflection might anchor me,

But it arrived cracked, jagged shards mocking my plea.

A broken relationship with the truth I’ve yet to hold—

I swept up the pieces, each one as empty and cold.

Now the shadows lengthen, fingers reaching for my throat,

They slither up the walls, hissing behind the door.

They whisper secrets in a language thick as blood,

Stirring up doubts that swirl inside my mind like mud.

A cold draft slithers down my neck, the air thick with dust and decay.

A floorboard groans beneath my feet. Trapped in this tomb, I fade away.

This place is haunted, no question; each corner sighs in gloom,

I can’t find my face, can’t prove I’m here, trapped in this tomb.

I’m a ghost myself, drifting between who I am and who I’m not,

My identity’s a bad joke the universe forgot.

No mirrors to answer my silent screams, no glass to hold my eyes,

Just the hole in my dresser, an absence that magnifies

All the things I fear and the voices that sneer—

They say I’m nothing, just a haunted echo living here.

And maybe they’re right. I can’t refute a reflection I can’t see,

Just an empty hole where a mirror—and my certainty—should be.

~ Eeta