There is a disembodied sadness, a phantom ache that lingers in the hollows of memory. It emerges from the chasm between having and not having, a silent lament for what once was and what now eludes our grasp. The presence of touch, once warm and intimate, has been bartered away, replaced by the presence of absence—a void that gnaws at the edges of our souls.

How awful it is—the way time unravels our certainties, leaving us with frayed threads of longing. Sundays, those quiet interludes, become vessels for coffee and the art of not opening our eyes wide enough to meet the day’s gaze. We cocoon ourselves in half-slumber, shielding our vulnerability from the world’s harsh light.

But now, as night descends, weariness settles upon my bones. Tomorrow morning, I will awaken, and we will find ourselves miles and miles away from where we once stood together. The map of our shared moments stretches across vast distances, and yet, the heart’s compass remains stubbornly fixed on the coordinates of memory.

Dwelling on what should remain untrodden ground is a treacherous path. It corrodes the delicate machinery of our bodies—the heart, the lungs, the fragile synapses that weave our thoughts. Better to let go, they say, to release the tendrils of attachment. But the heart, oh, the heart—it clings to echoes, to fragments of what once bloomed.

Let us divert our gaze tonight, away from the well-worn grooves of sorrow. Instead, consider the beauty of unexpected discoveries—the artifacts that emerge from the folds of time, unbidden. Imagine reaching into your back pockets and finding a painting—a canvas without a title, a dateless masterpiece. Its strokes move you, not because of provenance or fame, but because it whispers secrets to your soul.

Perhaps it depicts a bridge suspended between realms, where your spirit has crossed state lines. Or maybe it captures the curve of a lover’s shoulder, the way their laughter spills like sunlight. The absence of context becomes its own story—a tale spun from the threads of wonder.

And so, let fates consolidate their offerings: poems unfurling like petals, new poets stepping into the spotlight. Their words, like brushstrokes, paint constellations across the canvas of your mind. You, the curator of your own existence, gather these fragments, these luminous shards, and weave them into armor against the night.

Laundry can wait; the sheets still carry his scent, a bittersweet reminder. You are wine-drunk in life, even without the liquid. The city presses against your chest, a heavy palm that knows your secrets. The sky, a muted hue—the color of scotch tape, binding memories together.

Everything bears the stain of existence, like coffee rings on a forgotten notebook. And though you may not feel beautiful tonight, know this: something incredible stirs beneath your feet. It pulses through the cracks in the pavement, the hidden veins of the earth. You sense it—an ancient rhythm, a promise whispered by the wind.

There’s something there, my dear. Trust the ache, the yearning. It is the compass that guides you toward the unnamed, the uncharted. And in the quiet of night, when the world sleeps, you stand on the precipice of wonder.

Copyright © Beatriz Esmer