If our pillows could whisper, would they guard our midnight confessions in quiet trust? Or speak aloud the restless thoughts that stir beneath closed lids?

Would the cool side, crisp and serene, reflect calm restraint — While the warm side, worn with time, cradle our secrets with empathy?

Might they pass silent judgment on our habits,
Measuring devotion by how often we dress them in fresh covers, or feel exposed, vulnerable, without their shams?

Would they greet us gently at dawn, or lie mute,
Harboring the weight of unspoken fears and dreams we’ve long buried?

Perhaps, in their silence, they offer solace— A soft presence, absorbing the burdens we cannot carry alone.

In the stillness of night, they hold space for our heaviest thoughts — Comforting us when the world falls quiet, and only they know the depth of our need for peace.


— Sincerely, Boris

Mountains of pillows,
Soft sheets,
and warm covers,
couldn't bring you into my arms.

Wrinkles and sunken silhouettes,
remind me of what we once had.
Now you only **** me
when the calories and lust hit your gut.

I hate sleeping alone,
you won't help me resolve the issues
that block my way to you.
What we once had.

Washing machines drain the fabric of you
in every cycle
One more day my body forget the tenderness of you
and your loving arms.

W
          here
          you
          are
     dreaming.          ?
          ­are
          you
          here
T

when not the monsters under my bed
Make me have sleeples nights
But my own mind
Making me have a hard time

Forcing me to rhyme
And is torturing me in my own mind

Wishing upon my downfall
While making me cry
With the long ago scense
From my previous life

But who is it
that torments me in those lonely night?
Is it the night
who wakes me up
Or is it me,
who won't let my running thoughts cry?

The waking will shake you
But it won't **** you
And soon you'll be so taken with reality
That falling asleep will be a torturous task

I'm laying on the floor at 1:37am
on a tuesday, or maybe wednesday.
the vents are reeking of that dog again.

Blanketed by only a scented candle
I see shadows, it resembles residue
a stained glass ceiling.

There is an ache between my shoulders
as I contemplate living, or sleeping
but that's always been the same thing.

As I listen to the showering upstairs,
I try to find ways to speak in words
that have nothing to do with you.

Winter is the cold sleeping space
Between the blanket and the sky,
Between the legs falling asleep in warmth,
And the leaves turned to frost in twilight.

Dark of night surrounds me, pillow below my head.
How long the many hours since I tumbled onto my bed?

Mind so filled with thought that clearly has me stressed.
Racing, scattered thought that just wont let me rest.

Blanket that feels loose and shifts to feel oh so tight,
and so it sets the pattern for this never ending night.

I know that I must sleep before the rise again of the sun,
in a world that cant relent from insistence things must be done.

My body urgent in its craving to be silent and be still,
but my mind just wont give in possessing the stronger will.

A discomfort on my left side, so I roll again to my right.
Countless repetition through the hours of a god forsaken night.

Nothing that I do brings a sense my mind is nearing calm,
I must try to get some sleep before clock sounds its alarm.

So the hours go, too many hours surely for just one night,
but too late now to rest as window reveals dawns early light.