The world does not stop.  
Its hands grind the hours to dust,  
indifferent, relentless,  
a machine that tears beauty from its roots.  

They pave over wildness,  
turn green to gray,  
and laugh as they vanish into cities  
built to collapse.  

And I hate them for it—  
for the way they pass by  
what remains,  
too blind to see the tender rebellion  
of a wildflower rising through cracked stone,  
the stillness of a hill beneath an endless sky.  

At fifty-five miles per hour,  
they reduce the infinite to a blur,  
a place they will never touch.  

But I love the quiet, the overlooked.  
The way moss clings to damp stone,  
the faint pulse of water through soil,  
the hum of life in a field mouse’s frantic dash.  

A single blade of grass,  
standing unbroken beneath the frost,  
carries more grace than the world  
they call progress.  

For I, too, am a speck of dust,  
being ground down by causality,  
spun within the great indifference  
of all that moves and does not see.  

And yet I persist—  
a small thing against the weight,  
an ember clutching at its warmth,  
a whisper in the deafening void.  

I want to scream,  
not to stop the world,  
but to make them see.  
To make them hear the voice of moss,  
the whisper of grass,  
the soft rebellion of the unnoticed.  

I want them to kneel  
and lay their palms to the ground,  
to feel what still endures beneath them—  
not in grandeur,  
but in the quiet things  
that will outlast their noise.  

Let them say I was hollow.  
Let them call me bitter, or ruined.  
But let them know this:  
Every fragile thing that stood defiant  
held a piece of me within it,  
a weight to steady its roots,  
a breath to fan its fire.  

And when they forget,  
as they always will,  
I will remain in the places they passed,  
small and unseen,  
but unbroken.

This latter stage of life unfolds—  
so distant now from dreams once gold.  
Each sunset sinks, each storm is crossed,  
and whispers still of Loved and Lost.  

The days ahead, though yet unwritten,  
hold no warmth, no solace given.  
I stand beneath the waning sun,  
and find no comfort—  
there is none.

In the recent months, I have been reflecting on letting go of someone I loved deeply and how it has been both a challenge and a gift. Though we didn’t share a long history, our connection felt like a rare, enduring bond that had felt like a lifetime of passion and care. In that brief time, I felt truly seen and accepted in a way that gave me hope, as if a new world had opened. Now, in releasing that dream, I’ve come to see that each relationship, whether brief or lasting; has shaped my understanding of how I wish to love and be loved.

Throughout my dating journey, I’ve met incredible people. Each connection has offered unique lessons, insights, and reflections of who I am and who I want to become. There’s a richness to those experiences, even when they don’t lead to lasting partnership. They remind me of the qualities I admire in others and in myself; the qualities that, with time, will align in a way that feels right. Rather than giving up on finding love, I see these relationships as part of a continuous journey that strengthens my vision of the life and love I want to create.

The more I’ve grown, the clearer I’ve become on the ways I want to give and receive love. I’m learning that love, at its best, feels like a balance of freedom and presence, moments of vulnerability and self-respect. As I move forward, I’m more intentional about what I want from a partner; qualities that foster a sense of mutual respect, shared values, and an unspoken understanding. My experiences have shown me that love thrives not when it’s forced or pursued out of fear but when it’s nurtured from a place of genuine connection and trust.
Letting go of a deep love has brought me closer to my purpose, reminded me of my strength, and deepened my faith in the journey.

Moving forward doesn’t mean leaving behind the beauty of what we shared; instead, I carry it with me, allowing it to fuel my hope for the future. I honor what was, release it with love, and step forward with renewed clarity. This journey is far from over; I remain open, curious, and hopeful, trusting that each new connection will bring me closer to a love that feels like home.

—

Heartbreak, a bitter medicine,
teaches me where I ache and why,
where I bend and where I break,
where I must learn to stand alone.

In each loss, a deeper knowing,
a softening to love’s open arms,
and the courage to seek,
again and again,
a love that feels like home.

— Sincerely, Boris

The end of Memory
Hard and dull, matt surface
Plaster white and bitter
Tasting of no return, no reruns
Just a passing out of reach
Animate to inanimate
Clockwork spring extending

End of memory
Not forgetfulness of a Lotus eater's gape
Nor distance crowded out
With noise and meaning filling
All the gaps
The spaces left for colour and
The lines that merge in a single
Perspective point

Of memory
Gradual fading and graduation
Stutters of old strangeness
Pretences of identity
Nighttime of distant blues
Past sunsets
Or mountains drawn
Childish grey pyramids
Sinking in childish grey sands

Memory
Unspoken and
Matt and
Linear and
Lunar and
Lastly
And

At a certain point in my life I realized I would never be whole

So I tried to find somebody beautiful in the ways I was not

And then I clung to her and prayed

That we filled in the cracks the other left

A dead baby
  is a baby that's died
      in anyone's language.