_“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.
Jul 24, 2025
Jul 24, 2025 at 6:28 PM UTC
_“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.
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