There are wounds, my love, that echo the tempests. They are not mere scratches on the surface; they are cataclysms that tear through flesh and bone. These wounds, like storms, arrive unbidden, raging across the landscape of our souls.

Imagine the harshest of winds—the kind that howl through ancient canyons, stripping away layers of vulnerability. They whip and twist, leaving behind rawness, aching and exposed. You, my love, were that gale, relentless and unyielding. You tore through my defenses, scattering fragments of who I once was.

And then there are the bitter rains of longing. They fall from skies heavy with memory, each drop a whispered ache. These rains seep into the crevices of fractured hearts, filling them with the ache of what could have been. They blur the boundaries between love and loss, until we are left standing in the downpour, drenched and shivering.

Yet, amidst this wreckage, there is a strange beauty. For wounds, like storms, reshape the contours of our existence. They carve new valleys, forge uncharted paths. And perhaps, my love, it is in this brokenness that we find our truest selves—the fragments pieced together, scars mapping stories of survival.

So let the winds rage, and the rains fall. Let us be ravished by the elements, for within these wounds lies the poetry of our shared vulnerability. And perhaps, just perhaps, we’ll discover that healing, too, can be a kind of weather—a slow, steady sun breaking through the clouds, stitching us back together.

May these words resonate with the echoes of your heart. ❤️

Copyright © Beatriz Esmer

Watercolor painting art