Once, this Space burned bright—
a forge of words
igniting like molten gold,
each post a spark,
each reply an igniter
binding us in its radiant glow. 

Now, the embers yield
only smoky memories.
How we debated, consoled, inspired,
woven into priceless ashes.  
A library with its doors ajar,
dust weighing down unread stories,
silence pooling in this Space
where imagination used to bloom. 

As I walk through this Space,
seeing relics of times shared,
I feel the ache of
your absences.
Your words remain,
like flowers pressed between these pages—
faded and brittle,
the petals have lost their scent.

We shared our lives here.
We laid bare our souls
through midnight ramblings,
in sprawling stanzas
and aching prose.  
This was the Space where
we found each other—
where we found ourselves.

Now, this Space feels smaller.
Heavier.
Even absence has a sound—
the hum of a page without a pen,
the sob of an unread story,
the sigh of a thread with no reply.

And yet, though you’re gone,
I can’t seem to leave this Space.
The traces you left behind
still pull me back  
into these hollowed halls
where every absence feels
like an unfinished story.

Do you remember?
Do you hear it,
the echo of this Space?