For women who are tied to the moon, love alone is not enough. We demand that each day entwine its knuckles through our heartstrings and pull, drawing out the lows, the joy, the poetry. We dance at the precipice of existence, where you have tumbled into the abyss. Yet, as the moon waxes and wanes, so too will you rise again.

You, rare girl, possess a body that belongs to no lover, no father—it is yours alone. Wear your sorrow like the lines etched on your palm, like a shawl that shields you from the chill of night.

Do not lament the love that has slipped away; it is a book of poems whose rhythms have seeped into your very pulse. Though it may have fallen from your grasp, it remains within you, an indelible part of your being. ❤️🙏🏾

©️Beatriz Esmer