My dear Bambi lover, I notice a hint of fear in your eyes tonight —
fleeing from the glint of light that dances within my eyes. It was never
my aim to send you fleeing, my dear.

Even though my affection blooms most brightly beneath the warming
hues of sunrise- fret not, for we can find solace in each other’s arms,
cradled by the soothing melodies of our cherished memories for
another twilight

I am fortunate to have been given a second chance at life. After experiencing the same persistent headache every night for five consecutive days, I recognized that something was not right. Upon arriving at the hospital, the staff noticed a concerning spike in my blood pressure, prompting a CT scan of my brain.

The results revealed the presence of two aneurysms, and the medical team needed to determine whether they were ruptured or hemorrhaged. After three painful attempts at a spinal tap, I insisted that the surgeon take over. Unfortunately, the procedure confirmed my worst fears; there was blood in the cerebrospinal fluid, indicating a hemorrhage. Faced with the grim reality of being given only a one-in-three chance of survival, I was urged to contact my family. In that moment, my thoughts were consumed by my daughter, brother, and sister; my entire world.

I awoke two days post-surgery and spent the next fourteen days recovering in the hospital. This harrowing experience profoundly altered my perspective, illuminating the areas of my life that I had neglected; my mental, physical, and spiritual health. I was forced to confront a haunting possibility: a future where my daughter would grow up without me by her side. The weight of that realization was overwhelming.

I am grateful to be here today, having narrowly escaped what felt like my expiration date last April. My daughter and I cherish every moment together, and I approach life with renewed purpose. Since my recovery, I have navigated the complexities of life, experiencing love, heartbreak, and the joys of watching my daughter thrive in fourth grade. I have been rediscovering the beauty of my city and striving to prioritize my well-being through healthier choices that benefit my mind, body, and soul.

Yet, I live with the awareness that I am on borrowed time; a gift not everyone receives. Each day feels like an undeserved grace, a reminder that life is fleeting and precious, and I will never take a moment for granted. This journey has pushed me to not just survive, but to thrive with intention. I am proud of the inner work I have embraced: mindfulness, meditation, journaling, and writing poetry, each practice helping me deepen my understanding of self and guiding me toward emotional clarity. I’ve rekindled my love for reading, finding solace and inspiration in the written word once more. And physically, I’ve committed myself to healthier living; nourishing my body through balanced nutrition and daily exercise.

This dedication to my mental and physical health has been transformative. It is a testament to my resilience and to the hard-fought battles I wage daily to become the best version of myself. I am proud of the progress I have made, and I honor this borrowed time by continuing to grow, knowing that every breath, every step forward, is a victory.

—

I walk among the living, yet I feel
the dark of those who left, who lean in close,
their soft whispers like petals falling.
The day of death; today, I feel them near,
those gone and yet alive in every breath I take.

They know I stood close, brushed the calm brink,
my life offered, a fragile cord severed,
but then, stitched back with thread of borrowed breath.
They gave me seconds spun from their own stillness,
a kindness of the dead to the dying.

In their silence, I hear a call to love and live,
Not with the fury of a man cheated from death,
but with the gentleness of one held tenderly
by unseen faces, those who walk the other side,
yet send their light across to warm my face.

I am a guest here, held by the mercy of the lost,
a witness who owes his heartbeat to their generosity.
For every hour given, I bow to them, thankful.
In each sunrise, I see them wink from the shadows,
their gift of borrowed time; a vow I carry forward.

— Sincerely, Boris

Maybe it’s time to let the old ways die.
No,
Not a gentle passing,
Not a quiet fade.
I will **** them,
Lay them to rest beneath the weight of who I must become.

But who am I, really?
A pale imitation,
A shadow too scared to meet the light.

I count my failures like rosary beads,
Each one a prayer to the hollow god of “not enough.”

The mirror lies.
It shows the surface:
Eyes half-closed—
From exhaustion?
From fear?
Or to hide the split-second shame
That flickers behind them.

A thought, raw and bare,
That what I’ve done,
What I’ve built,
Will never be enough.

I despise my own reflection—
The way it clings to mediocrity,
The way it swallows excuses
And spits them back as reasons.

Yet here I am.
Climbing a wall with no summit,
Straining toward a light
I’m not sure exists.

But still I climb,
For fear of falling
Is greater than the hunger for rest.

And in the echoes of these empty days,
I wonder:
If the old ways must die,
Will I mourn them?

Or will I simply replace them
With a newer, sharper hatred,
Polished and waiting,
For the next time I need someone to blame?

this fear well known to me,
for my truth is captive held
within, fearing the honesty
that seeks to liberate it
from the cages where it’s hid

lesser my mettle, the truth periodically
spills over. and my fleeing is not
freeing for the fear travels fast,
spine, legs, hands trembling treble
honesty a disease,  never a by your leave,
or a pretty please, just a bandage ripped,
and the skin, rawed from within,
and now from without, and I pray
til the fear in me subsides