In heart’s dark corners, a quiet voice is found,
love sprouts in the darkness, then falls to the ground.
A self once forgotten, shaped by love’s art,
brought out by a muse, then torn apart.

The ache of becoming, the joy of decay,
a fragile heart lost and remade in a day.
In love’s awakening aftermath, he stands alone,
wearing a version, both fleeting and known.

— Sincerely, Boris