The dullest chorus seldom lacks for volume.

It misunderstands resonance for reason,

and calls its own echo wisdom.

There is an archaic arithmetic to crowds:

every surrendered thought

multiplies another certainty.

Judgement is not accumulated there;

it is diluted,

till conviction floats

like froth upon indifferent ale.

Thus the phony prophet

rarely arrives alone.

He is escorted by ovation,

his deficiencies lacquered

with borrowed thunder.

Hullabaloo is the oldest tailor;

it can cut a king’s silhouette

for any passing fool.

The worthier soul

is often espied in the pause—

where scepticism keeps its lantern lit,

where conscience declines

the convenience of belonging.

Fact has unfailingly possessed

the unfortunate habit

of speaking below applause.

History, that parsimonious accountant,

sooner or later closes the register.

It does not total cheers.

It audits consequences.

There are seasons when the young

be bequeathed not prosperity,

but questions.

They discover that hereditary slogans

cannot mend an empty table,

nor can sanctified quarrels

repair a fractured republic.

Then comes the quieter revolution:

not of muskets,

but of memory returning.

The banners that once separated neighbour from neighbour

begin to fray,

for hunger has no denomination,

and unemployment kneels

in front of no altar.

The mastermind of perpetual division

always boobs fatigue for loyalty.

He forgets that generations

who inherit ashes instead of futures

eventually cease applauding the pyre.

They ask not who prayed where,

but who built nothing

while demanding endless devotion.

So mistrust the square

that erupts ahead of what it reflects.

An undiscriminating multitude

has never hardly celebrated error;

it has enthroned it,

then mistaken its own genuflection

for proof that greatness stood before them.

For the loudest acclaim

is scarcely the sound of discernment.

More commonly,

it is intelligence departing the room

in perfect unison,

extolling the wrong

until silence accedes the truth.

Some griefs arrive with sirens.

Others arrive secretly,

wearing the scent of your shirt,

settling beside me

while a vinyl record turns

with that familiar crackle—

each revolution another attempt

to bring you back.

I have learned that memory

has a sound.

It is the needle touching old music.

It is your laughter caught

between one verse and the next.

It is my name

only because it once belonged

inside your mouth.

And yours—

God.

Have I ever told you

how much I loved saying your name?

It felt less like speaking

and more like praying.

No one warned me

that love was a rose.

Everyone speaks of the bloom,

of crimson petals opening

like miracles in spring.

No one tells you

that sometimes

the thorns survive

long after the flower is gone.

I still wear your shirts.

Not because they fit,

but because they remember

the shape of your shoulders.

I still wear your necklace,

black against a black shirt,

as though mourning

could become a uniform.

Sometimes I hear a motorcycle

passing beneath my window,

and my hands instinctively reach

for a waist that no longer exists.

I am still holding onto you

as you ride through a city

that no longer has roads.

Only clouds.

You once told me

that dreams were worth believing.

I believed you.

And then I discovered

what becomes of broken dreams.

They do not disappear.

They wash ashore

on forgotten boulevards,

where lovers wander barefoot,

careful not to bleed

on the shattered glass

of futures they had already named.

If you have never stood

on such a boulevard,

you will not understand.

But one day—

when the universe chooses your house,

your heart,

your impossible hope—

you will.

You will learn

how heavy silence can become.

I still remember

the first time I saw you.

A video call.

Pixels.

A hesitant smile.

Two strangers

pretending not to recognise destiny.

You looked into my eyes,

and before either of us realised it,

my heart had crossed the screen.

No visa.

No permission.

Only surrender.

Then came our first kiss.

How extraordinary

that happiness

can hurt so much.

That night

I wanted the world to end—

not because I wished to die,

but because I could imagine

no tomorrow

higher than that single moment.

You taught me

that dreaming

wasn’t foolish.

When I stood

at the edge of myself,

ready to disappear,

you held my hand

with the quiet certainty

of someone who believed

I was worth saving.

Before you,

life felt like

an endless winter.

After you,

even London

could not feel cold enough

to frighten me.

Do you remember?

I told you

I was leaving.

Not to leave you—

never that—

but to become

someone worthy

of staying beside you.

“I need to get clean,”

I whispered.

“For me.

For us.”

Hope,

I have unearthed,

is the hardest promise

to keep.

Now the record

has stopped spinning.

The tattoo

will never be finished.

The feather

waits for a wind

that has forgotten its name.

The boulevard waits too.

Perhaps it always will.

Sometimes

the lights begin singing

without warning.

I hear them.

Every streetlamp

hums your favourite melody.

Yet I no longer dance.

How could I?

Every step

belongs to the one

who used to lead me.

I no longer sing

unless it is our song.

Even then,

my voice keeps looking

for yours.

Night after night,

I bargain with sleep.

Please,

let me dream of you.

Let me borrow you

for a few impossible hours.

Because morning

is the cruellest invention

the Maker ever made.

Morning insists

you are gone

all over again.

The light is off.

Your face.

My face.

An ocean

between them.

Tell me—

what could possibly exist

that is greater

than the miracle

of being loved by you?

Nothing.

Nothing at all.

People tell me

that time heals.

I think they mistake

scar tissue

for resurrection.

There are wounds

that simply become

part of the fibre

of the soul.

You are one of mine.

And perhaps

that is another name

for forever.

If somewhere

beyond this breathing world

you can still hear me,

know this—

I still love you.

Across oceans.

Across winters.

Across countries,

cemeteries,

and impossible distances.

Across every life

the universe has forgotten

to give us.

Until my bones become dust.

Until my name

is spoken

for the very last time.

Until even memory

falls asleep.

I will meet you

where the boulevard begins—

where abandoned dreams

grow into wildflowers,

where old vinyl records

play without ending,

where motorcycles

never run out of road,

where the lights

are forever singing,

and where, at last,

I shall hear you

say my name

one more time.

Postscript. 

This poem is dedicated to my dear Mikel Niso and his feature film, Boulevard (2026). The dedication is not born of obligation but of observation. It is an uncommon privilege to encounter someone so young who possesses not only evident talent but also the far less common virtues of humility, sincerity, and a heart untouched by vanity. Such qualities deserve acknowledgment. The poem, therefore, is my small tribute to both the artist and the young man behind the performance.

Backstage simulated organised catastrophe – Hair lacquer meandered across overheated air like invisible graffiti. Aftershave collided with fresh espresso. Curling irons hissed. Mist drifted from pressing stations in spectral ribbons since dissolving under relentless spotlights. Hangers clattered. Stylists barked instructions with the urgency of battlefield generals. Somewhere, somebody swore because a sleeve had collected foundation. Elsewhere, some poor sod discovered spray tan upon ivory silk and briefly reconsidered their very existence.

Kai studied his fleshly reflection in an enormous mirror bordered by theatrical bulbs. A midnight blazer hugged the contours of his torso with mathematical precision.

He pouted. “Mate...”

Elliot scanned a peek amid tightening bootlaces. “What?”

Kai pinched the lapel between thumb and forefinger as though handling contaminated evidence. “This fucking thing costs more than my first motor.”

“So?”

“So?” Kai scoffed. “Ten grand for stitched fabric. Humanity’s genuinely lost its marbles,” he sighed, “fashion’s the biggest scam ever invented, eh.”

Elliot snorted. “You’ve completely missed the joke, mate.”

“What joke?”

“The label.”

Kai blinked. “What about it?”

“It matters about as much as scented bin bags.”

“Absolute piss-take.”

“What d’you mean?”

“The jacket’s got sod all to do with it.” He straightened his hood. “If you are in shape, Primark starts looking like Savile Row.”

A makeup artist wandered past carrying brushes like medieval weaponry.

Kai folded both arms. “Explain yourself, Professor Catwalk.”

Elliot stood, dusted undetectable lint from immaculate shoulders, then inclined his chin at a bloke in the area. “See him?”

“The lad wearing the plain white cotton tee?”

“Yup.”

“He looks expensive.”

“He spent twenty quid.”

Kai grimaced. “...Bugger off.”

“Nope.”

“But...”

“Meanwhile, Mr Designer Waistcoat over there,” Elliot whispered, subtly indicating to a model buried under logos, “resembles somebody whose accountant accidentally dressed him.”

Kai watched photographers gravitate instinctively to the fellow wearing nothing remarkable whatsoever.

“...Bollocks.”

“They’re chasing confidence.”

“Seriously,” Kai said, “some fella spends ten grand trying to pose rich…” Eliott shook his head. “…while another spends six months eating chicken, broccoli, and saying no to doughnuts,” Kai interrupted, “…then walks in wearing a plain white T-shirt and everyone reckons he’s inherited a fucking castle.” Elliot shrugged. “That’s because the real indulgence isn’t stitched into the fabric, wanker. It’s carved into the bloody frame underneath.” Kai’s eyes lit up. “So getting fit…” He ceased articulating and wore his perfume. “…is the fit,” Elliot finished whilst he zipped his trousers.

Silence lingered. Steam veiled the haze, bluntly blurring individual luxury emblems before vanishing entirely. Funny thing, mirrors. They erased branding. Purely posture remained.

Kai watched his own stance unconsciously straighten. “Holy hell.”

Elliot beamed. “Exactly.”

“So everybody keeps chucking fortunes at wardrobes...”

Elliot breathed. “...instead of sorting whatever’s neath.”

Kai giggled. “That’s terribly tragic.”

“Nah,” mouthed Elliot playfully. 

“No?” exclaimed Kai. 

“Just abso-bloody-lutely efficient marketing.”

Nearby, an assistant wheeled another rail overflowing with parka shimmering within the wash of white luminousness like armour belonging to fabulously wealthy peacocks. 

Kai reached for one sleeve. “Incredible craftsmanship for all that.”

“Oh, absolutely.”

Elliot gently stopped him. “But tailoring rescues textile.”

Kai tilted his head. “Discipline rescues people.”

Those words settled somewhere unexpectedly deep.

Outside, bass thundered through runway speakers, each vibration rolling underfoot like distant artillery.

Kai exhaled slowly. “You ever notice something weird?”

“Eternally.”

“Nobody buys coats because they are cold.”

“No?”

“They’re hoping aura comes free inside the pockets.”

Elliot burst into laughter loud enough for three stylists to glare simultaneously. “Bottle doesn’t blooming turn up wrapped in tissue paper.”

Kai smirked. “Where’s it hiding then?”

Elliot pushed one sleeve to his elbow. “There.”

Kai raised one of his eyebrows. “My forearm?”

“Nah, knucklehead. The gym.”

“Ludicrous, innit?” 

“What?”

“Lads keep shopping for swagger,” Kai simpered, “and confidence is usually in the gym pretending to hate squats.”

A pause ensued. Longer this time. Not awkward. Comfortable. Around them, frantic hands adjusted ruffs, polished shoes, tugged cuffs, fixed collars, retied knots, reapplied powder, reshaped tresses. Countless frantic gestures chased perfection measured only by passing an ovation. Yet beneath every pricey garment stood thousands of forgotten repetitions. Early alarms. Skipped desserts. Heavy barbells. Sore muscles. Unrecognised decisions. Zero clapped for those. Everybody admired the results.

A stage manager stormed into the space. “Ninety seconds!”

Models immediately formed orderly chaos.

Kai straightened his jacket. “You reckon audiences actually believe they are staring at togs?”

Elliot chuckled. “Course.”

“They are rather wrong.”

“Massively.”

Kai smiled. “They’re watching persistence pretending to be fashion.”

Elliot opened the runway curtain. They exchanged a grin.

“Right then.”

“Let’s go convince all and sundry these clothes are the stars.”

“They are not, you twat.”

“No?”

“We are, you daft bastard.”

Blinding light flooded the dressing room like sunrise filtering via the basilica glass.

“Ready?”

Kai cracked his neck. “Always.”

Together they strode towards roaring applause. Half the crowd imagined couture had stolen all the attention. Neither garment would survive another season. Discipline would. 

Neither bothered correcting them.