“perhaps the sun is a teacup, spilled by a girl in a skyhouse who laughs in polka dots–”

You wrote like someone
who had been listening
long before speaking,
each poem a hush,
each repost a gentle offering.

This space once held you,
your words, your calm curation,
a gentle steadiness
in a shifting field of voices.

take this small goodbye
not as an end,
but as a door left open,
just in case
you return with your light.

Until then,
may strength find you
in soft moments,
and peace arrive
never needing to be earned.