From our first breath, the seconds slip,
Spent in a currency we scarcely grip.
We waste it on what’s broken, worn,
While neglecting the beauty newly born.

Too often, we fixate, we stall,
Forgetting to build, to love, to call—
Moments that ripple, memories that bind,
Treasures more lasting than what we leave behind.

Time, the one gift we all possess,
Dwindles down with each caress.
And when we exhale our final sigh,
We’ll wish we’d spent it not asking why,

But shaping moments that outlast death—
For time, not life, is our final breath.


— Sincerely, Boris