#EmptyReflections #Writecoapp
The lights have dimmed,
and the echoes of applause
sink into the wooden floor,
where dust now dances alone
in the faint breath of an empty room.

A chair sits, still warm from the weight of a body,
its shape now fading into shadow,
like the memory of a smile
that was real once,
but has since drifted into the space between things.

Here, the silence is thick,
a slow exhale from walls
that have listened too long
to words not their own.

The curtain hangs limp,
a forgotten veil,
as if waiting for someone to pull it back
and reveal what lies behind:
nothing
but the quiet hum
of what has been and what could have been.

What is a stage,
when no one stands upon it?
Is it still a story waiting to be told,
or merely an absence
draped in expectation?

Perhaps the stage itself is the performer,
the only one who endures,
carrying the weight of a thousand lives lived
but never truly known.

Now, it too rests,
its heart beating in the slow rhythm
of empty space,
where time loses meaning,
and everything feels suspended
on the edge of becoming,
or not becoming.

In this silence,
there is a kind of peace,
as though the world
has paused
to consider
what it means to be seen
and then forgotten.


© Sachan