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.
