Boro...

There’s something sacred in a stitch. Each one tells a story—whispered prayers, curses muttered under breath, the quiet hum of a needle threading its way through time. The boro jeans had lived more lives than I ever would. They weren’t just mended; they were resurrected, patched and layered like a battlefield scarred and beautiful.

Stitches hold

Boro fabric speaks louder than I do
Patch on patch—layer over layer.

Everything breaks,
but some things
are worth mending.