LOST:
A dream about a staircase with no top step.
Last seen circling my brain at 3:14 a.m.,
with no place to land.
Reward: One uninterrupted night of sleep.
Contact: riddlesnotlullabies@askytoclimb.com

FREE TO GOOD HOME:
A laugh that doesn’t fit anymore—
sharp, too loud,
like it belongs to someone braver.
Please take it before it cuts me deeper.
Contact: clankingtin@softsolace.com

MISSING CONNECTION:
You—on the other side of the street,
waving like it was still 2015.
Me—too slow to cross,
too afraid to shout.
If spotted, please circle back.
Contact: my number’s the same, but maybe you deleted it.

FOUND:
A treasure map to nowhere, folded into my coat lining.
No roads, just dotted lines,
and an X I’m scared to dig up.
No need to claim; it’s already mine.
Contact: (don’t.)

MISSING CONNECTION:
You—wearing a yellow raincoat,
laughing like the storm was yours to own.
Me—stuck in a doorway,
too afraid to step into puddles.
If you see this, let me borrow your courage.
Contact: meetme@bridgeofmysong.com

FOR SALE OR TRADE:
A reflection that doesn’t belong to me.
It moves slower, smiles at things
I haven’t thought of yet.
Will trade for a mug that doesn’t drip.
Contact: smokingmirrors@unstablefaces.org

LOST:
The way my name sounded when you said it,
soft and certain,
like it was the only taste there was.
Reward: The strength to stop listening for it.
Contact: sacredsyllables@windwhispered.com

FOR SALE:
One fractured moment in time.
It split clean down the middle—
half yours, half mine—
and hums like static when held.
Warning: Reassembly not guaranteed.
Contact: timesabitch@xrayfractures.com

LOST:
The ability to distinguish between a memory and a dream.
Last felt in a room full of books and musty yellow light.
Reward: A map with all dead ends marked in gold.
Contact: dreamfugue@unreliable.org

MISSING CONNECTION:
You—crossing the street as if it didn’t exist,
leaving footprints in the air.
Me—watching from behind a pane of glass that wasn’t real,
wishing I could step through.
If you see this, tell me if the other side is softer.
Contact: glasswalker@phantoms.com

FREE TO GOOD HOME:
A mirror that only reflects your mistakes.
It’s cracked but still works.
Perfect for someone braver than me.
Contact: onthewall@mercilessmirror.com

FREE TO GOOD HOME:
A scream swallowed too quickly,
leaving the weight of what it couldn’t say.
It hums at night, sharp enough to cut silence,
soft enough to still feel human.
Contact: wailingweight@humsandhaunts.com

FOUND:
A version of me I didn’t know still existed.
She’s smaller, softer,
but hums with the ache of wanting something bigger.
No one’s claimed her,
but she feels too familiar to let go.
Contact: echolalia@layersdeep.com

FOR SALE:
A jar of lightning,
trapped mid-flash, flickering faintly.
Warning: It won’t light your way, but it might set you on fire.
Contact: sparksfly@volatilenight.org

MISSING CONNECTION:
You—standing in a crowd of people who looked like you.
Me—shouting a name I wasn’t sure was yours.
If you see this, tell me which one of us got it wrong.
Contact: facelessblameless@nowronganswers.com

FREE TO GOOD HOME:
A shadow that moves faster than I do.
It drags me to places I swore I wouldn’t revisit.
It’s loyal,
but it doesn’t listen.
Contact: runawaytwin@goingnowhere.org

MISSING CONNECTION:
You—just out of reach,
your voice fading like a star going nova.
Me—chasing echoes through rooms I don’t recognize.
If you see this, tell me how it ends.
Contact: graspinglight@foreverandnever.com

WANTED:
A gas station map that folds wrong.
Not one that shows the way,
but one that erases it completely,
leaving only the thrill of getting lost.
Payment: Breadcrumbs I don’t plan to follow.
Contact: wanderorlust@uncharted.com

MISSING CONNECTION:
You—at a bus stop,
Me—watching you disappear before I could prove myself.
If you’re still waiting,
I swear I’ll catch the next bus.
Reward: a Metrocard, but refilling it costs more than it’s worth.
Contact: NYMTAhopeful@thatlakeinQueens.org

FOUND:
A photograph that doesn’t make sense—
faces blurred, the room stitched from dreams:
a log cabin leaning into splinters,
a Vietnamese superstore where shampoo and morning glory
share aisles with áo dài and gnocchi,
my first-grade classroom—pine-needle air,
metal chairs sparking against old carpet.
The photo shifts,
but the context stays the same.
Contact: dreamsindanangand1996@framegames.org

FREE TO GOOD HOME:
A moment of clarity that burns too bright to keep.
It sees everything,
even what you wish it wouldn’t.
Take it before it blinds me.
Contact: keepithidden@callouscandor.com

FOR SALE OR TRADE:
A clock with teeth.
It eats seconds like they’re starving it,
but spits them out just wrong enough to notice.
Will trade for a moment that doesn’t bite back.
Contact: devouredtime@bitingsands.com

WANTED:
Someone to tell me if it’s too late.
If the road I’ve walked is the only one I get,
or if there’s still time to take a left,
a right,
or turn around entirely.
No qualifications necessary—just say something.
Reward: My charge to pay attention; ***** coins and all.
Find Me: I'll be wearing a yellow rain coat.
Contact: universeswap@prophecy.org

a window of time:
wind sneaks in from behind like -
her breath on his neck.

Every time I see you, it’s the first time again;
like déjà vu rewritten in softer shades,
and I fall, surrendering as though I’d never known
the way you can both heal and haunt me.

I step into this circle, unbroken and sweet,
each glance a welcome wound, a familiar ache,
as if my heart has never learned
the shape of letting go.

I’ve tried to leave,
to walk ahead or fold back in,
but I’m tethered to the memory of you,
an orbit I can’t escape,
falling faster each time I rise.

I want to remember you less, but find myself
lingering in every echo of your name,
bound to relive each look, each touch;
this time loop of you, pulling me deeper,
until it’s all I know,
and all I want to leave behind.

— Sincerely Boris

Today, I close a door left open wide,
But never locked, in case one day, you seek
To return to the place we called our own,
A space once shared, now distant yet near.

On my side, memories linger, healing
From the bond we nurtured, fragile yet full;
But missing still, a knock from the other side,
A sign that you remember too.

On your side, your hand lingers on the handle,
Hesitant, unsure if the past is worth revisiting,
Afraid it may remind you of a love once tender,
That slipped through our fingers like sand.

Our hands meet; two souls on opposite sides,
Turning the **** together,
Opening the door once more.
What begins as a polite greeting
Melds into an embrace,
A hug that stretches time,
Filling the air with memories.

We are carried back,
To a time when we stood on the same side of the door,
Happy, united, alive in our shared warmth.
We leave it unlocked,
For whatever future may come.

A door is just a door;
And though we close it now,
It will never be locked,
For the love and friendship we once knew,
Still lingers, waiting, on both sides.

— Sincerely, Boris

We grew up in the same small town,
summers brushing by like strangers.
One day, you came by during band practice,
and wrote down titles of my CD collection,
and I smiled.

Years later, we crossed paths in Toronto,
you, studying to heal others,
We never named what we were;
sleepovers, meals shared,
your love for my cat, our weekends together.

I think of you sometimes,
your voice from Europe, the music in bed,
your quirky and dorky self, so unguarded.
And though we’ve drifted,

I know you’re well;
still carrying that quiet grace,
living the life you deserve.

— Sincerely, Boris

I recently met a woman who captivates my curiosity in ways which are both subtle and sincere. She possesses an enchanting smile, one that invites contemplation, and her intellect is a reservoir of knowledge.

Our time together began in simplicity, which brought with it the slow transition from casual exchanges to more intimate encounters and a beautiful friendship rooted in vulnerability and openness. It was just the two of us, seated beside one another at her wooden dining table; an otherwise unremarkable place transformed into the locus of a quiet, passionate moment. There, amidst the remnants of earlier conversations and the subtle hush of the night, we began to truly reveal ourselves, not merely through the words exchanged but through the silences that punctuated them. Our questions, though innocuous at first, grew longer in their responses, drawing us closer, as though the very chairs we occupied were conspiring to bring our bodies nearer. And in time, they did. The space between us vanished, until we found ourselves no longer seated apart but sharing an almost singular presence.

In that instant, as if time itself paused in reverence, our lips met. The kiss was neither hurried nor fleeting, but rather the kind that stretches across the span of hours. Our hands explored, tracing paths not unlike the threads of our earlier conversations; each touch unveiling a new dimension of understanding, as if we were learning each other in a language foreign yet familiar. It was as if our bodies communicated where words could not, translating the intrigue of thought into something palpable and electric.

–

As we sit under the autumn sun,
Our knees brush the earth,
Your eyes trace soft paths between us.

Our children play in the distance;
Their laughter singing a song we both know well.

Between bites of a shared sandwich,
We exchange stories,
Untangling the past and present,
Until we begin to speak of dreams
We had both long forgotten.

In the stillness between breaths,
My hand finds your leg,
And before our children return;
You steal a kiss, quick as a secret.
I smile, and steal it back.

When our children return to the picnic,
Their hands full of discoveries,
We sit, caught in the moment’s pause;
No longer stealing kisses,
But sharing them softly,
As if they belong only to us.

— Sincerely, Boris

Listening, truly hearing, and validating others are more than just transactional actions; they are pathways to deeper connection and understanding. As I navigate relationships in my life, be it as a brother, father, friend, or romantic partner, I recognize the invisible barriers that often obstruct meaningful communication. These barriers are rooted in assumptions, judgments, or emotional distractions that distance us from one another.

With my parents, the distance is palpable. It’s not simply a physical separation but an emotional one, built over years of unmet expectations and miscommunications. Listening, I’ve learned, involves more than just being present; it’s about silencing my inner critic and fears long enough to truly hear them, to understand their perspectives without immediately reacting or defending. This is where the challenge lies: how do I open myself to a history that’s been difficult, without letting it consume me?

My siblings have always been my emotional anchors. Here, I’ve discovered the importance of validation; not just through words but through actions and shared experiences. In these relationships, we’ve built a foundation of trust, and I’ve realized that validating their experiences means offering empathy without judgment, even when I don’t fully understand. In return, I’ve felt their unwavering support through the darkest moments of my life.

With my daughter, as a single father, listening has taken on new meaning. She looks to me not just for answers, but for guidance through her emotions, her thoughts, and her evolving sense of the world. Hearing her is about allowing her the space to express herself without imposing my own fears or expectations. It’s about creating an environment where she feels safe and valued, knowing that her thoughts matter, that her voice is important. I’ve found that validating her as she grows is my way of not only being her father but also being her ally in life.

Friends and romantic partners have presented their own challenges. In my past relationships, I’ve often found myself either shutting down or misinterpreting, letting misunderstandings brew into distance. What I’ve learned is that to truly connect with those I care for, I need to offer them more than just words; I need to offer presence, patience, and the willingness to acknowledge their emotional realities without diminishing them. It’s an ongoing process of learning to hold space for others while also being vulnerable enough to let them hold space for me.

Through all these roles, I’ve come to understand that listening, hearing, and validating are not just tools for better relationships; they are acts of love and generosity. When I strip away my ego and the defenses I’ve built over years of pain and trauma, I see that these practices are what allow me to bridge the gaps that have formed in my life, from my childhood through to the present. They are, ultimately, how I can transform the relationships that matter most to me, starting with myself.

—

There’s a secret to listening, a delicate art,
Where ears become wings and minds become hearts.
It’s not just the words that float through the air,
But the spaces between, the moments we share.

It’s catching the whispers that never take flight,
The thoughts in the corners, the ones out of sight.
Like fireflies dancing in soft twilight skies,
It’s hearing the things that aren’t said with your eyes.

A laugh that feels tired, a smile that’s unsure,
A pause that says “listen,” though nothing is pure.
It’s the music of presence, a soft-spoken tune,
That fills up the room like a warm afternoon.

To listen, my friend, is an act of sweet grace,
A gift without ribbons, no bow to replace.
For love isn’t grand when you shout from above;
It’s the quiet “I hear you” that whispers of love.

— Sincerely, Boris

Act One:

It takes a year to learn loss,
to feel the weight of each day without its rhythm,
what once was, is now only a shadow,
what was here, has slipped away.

It takes a year to understand the space
you still hold in my heart, in my mind.
What was once hollow, now aches with memory.
What was once vacant, is now filled with longing.

It takes a year to fall in love,
and a moment to take it for granted.
What was once ours, has drifted beyond reach.
What was once ours, belongs to the past.

It takes a year to regret the deepest mistake,
to lose everything; even yourself.
What was once within grasp, is now gone,
what once was life, is now distant.

It takes a year to mourn the loss,
to feel again what was missed and forgotten.
What once broke me, has now faded,
what once shattered, is now still.

It takes a year to feel the sting of absence,
to realize the love you held is no longer yours,
and in the stillness of that truth, we find peace,
carving space for new beginnings, for what’s to come.

Act Two:

One year ago today,
I spoke those words,
I never thought I’d say again;
‘I love you,’ and in that moment,
My world had forever changed.

— Sincerely, Boris

I miss the simplicity of slow dancing, swaying with someone under dim lights or even no lights at all, just the music of the moment guiding us. I long for the quiet exchange of handwritten notes, folded corners, and scrawled words that felt more intimate than texting ever could. There’s something irreplaceable about holding hands, feeling the pulse of another life interwoven with your own, a silent affirmation of connection.

I miss the affection; the casual, unspoken touches that say everything. The surprise of it all: an unexpected romantic gesture that brightened the day for no other reason than love. There’s an almost sacred joy in taking care of someone when they’re ill and not feeling themselves, the chance to nurture and be there in their vulnerability.

Cooking meals together, spending holidays together, planning a trip that revolves only around us, reading chapters to one another, carrying your things, buying flowers just because; these small rituals hold so much love in their simple execution. I miss sharing a stunning view with someone who feels the same way about the world, the silent communion that comes from recognizing beauty together.

Every love language matters in romance: the touch of a hand, the words that lift each other up, the thoughtful gifts, the unexpected surprises, the moments of service where we care without being asked, and the time spent simply being. They are all pieces of the puzzle that make romance whole, that make it feel alive and present in every interaction.

—

I miss the fold of your notes,
handwritten, curved,
as if the words themselves
were meant only for us to read.

I miss the simple joy of your hand in mine,
our fingers woven tightly,
a quiet language spoken
through skin and pulse.

I miss the sudden warmth of affection,
unprompted touches that bloom
unexpected, like the harvest in your garden.

The element of surprise,
the way love shows up
in places we never thought to look.

I miss the kitchen conversations,
meals made with laughter
and slow dancing over a simmering ***.

And buying flowers, just because
a day felt brighter with them in your hands.
I miss the view from that hilltop,
how we laid there, silently drinking in the world’s beauty
and found it mirrored in each other’s eyes.

I miss the romance,
the essence of what made us whole,
the moments we froze in time,
just long enough to call them ours.

— Sincerely, Boris

Sometimes, life comes down to the things left unsaid; the choices we once couldn’t make or the words we were too afraid to say. I’ve thought about this deeply, especially with the echoes of my last relationship, where love became something shared with my daughter too. Watching them together stirred something new in me, something that felt both tender and weighted, knowing how close we all were and the emotions that had layered over time.

In love and life, I’ve realized, timing is as much an enemy as it is a friend. There are relationships you hold in your heart long after they’re gone, because in some way, they’re stitched into who you are. Letting go, I learned, doesn’t mean forgetting. It means honoring what it gave you, allowing yourself to grow around the loss and the memories alike. And part of that growth, for me, has been opening up to my daughter, showing her the sides of love that endure; friendship, loyalty, and the courage to embrace life’s impermanence without resentment.

There’s a quiet strength in moving forward, I think, but it also means having the patience to live with what’s unresolved. Sometimes, the most meaningful connections leave us with loose ends. In those gaps between what we once shared and what remains, I try to find peace; not just for myself, but for the kind of man, father, and friend I want to be. And that, I’ve learned, might be the truest mark of love.

—

In the meadows of my daughter’s laughter,
she found a friend, a mentor, a guide;
a woman who spoke to the world as if every leaf and feather
carried a secret worth holding close.

I’d watch them both, fingers intertwined,
two souls bound in wonder,
eyes wide with the shared love of nature’s beauty.

They made gifts from paper and glue,
sketched treasures and braided wishes into chest full of memories,
as if they, together, could grow a world all their own.

She became more than love,
more than a hand to hold beside mine;
she was someone I’d have proudly called partner;
shoulder to shoulder, raising my daughter with honor.

But that world we dreamt, its warmth and wild simplicity,
is gone now, fading like the sunset that lit their sky.
I look at my daughter, and see traces of her curiosity,
the way they shared secrets I will miss greatly.

It is the saddest truth I carry;
to love what’s gone, and to walk forward in its dissolve.
Yet, for the bond they wove so carefully, so tenderly,
I am forever grateful, and forever grieving.

— Sincerely, Boris