Echoes

There is nothing romantic to be found in endings. The poetry comes later, when the sun is set and nights are lonely, when nostalgia comes knocking and houses seem too large, when scars are healing but the memories still sting. There is no beauty in the absence of what once brought you joy. We write pretty words to remember what is lost, but after the ink has dried, we are only left with footprints and echoes. There is no art in heartbreak. There is only emptiness. There is only what was and what is left behind.

Photography by Boris Mirkin