There is a room, now nearly empty,

that we built together

And filled with the volumes of our minds.

Some might believe it to be a hovel.

Others might say a castle.

They are all wrong.

But it is ours and ours alone.

In your absence the tomes are fading.

Your return is not precluded

but increasingly unlikely.

The space cannot be occupied

by anyone else.

So I sit in this vacuous place,

thumbing through the beautiful scraps

of our friendship,

stilled in my illegitimate grief.