Tes yeux sont si profonds que j’y perds la mémoire.

Your eyes—their irises like twin galaxies—hold secrets older than constellations. They are wellsprings of forgotten tales, where the past and present entwine, and the future hesitates, unsure of its own script.

I imagine tracing the contours of your gaze—the delicate arch of your brow, the crescent moons etched beneath your lashes. Each blink, a shutter capturing fragments of existence: stolen kisses, whispered promises, the scent of rain on cobblestone streets.

And within those depths, memory unravels like a vintage tapestry. Perhaps it was a moonlit soirée, where laughter swirled like champagne bubbles, and your eyes met mine across a crowded room. Or was it the quiet morning after, when dawn tiptoed through half-drawn curtains, and we lay tangled in sheets, unraveling the night?

In their fathomless abyss, I lose myself—a willing amnesiac. Names dissolve and faces blur; only the imprint of your gaze remains—an indelible ink staining parchment. I forget the mundane—the grocery lists, the passwords, the world’s cacophony—because your eyes rewrite my reality.

Je t’aime, they murmur, syllables woven into stardust. And I, the archeologist of sentiment, dig deeper. What other memories lie buried there? The taste of salt on your skin after a sea-kissed afternoon? The way your laughter swirled like autumn leaves, defying gravity?

But memory is a capricious lover. It slips through my fingers like sand, leaving only echoes—the ghostly resonance of your gaze. Was it joy or sorrow that etched those lines at the corners? Did we dance on the precipice of forever, or did we falter, hearts bruised by the weight of what we couldn’t say?

Je t’aime, they insist, and I surrender. For in losing memory, I find something more profound—a communion of souls, unburdened by chronology. We become mythmakers, weaving our narrative across centuries, our love a constellation stitched into the fabric of existence.

So, tes yeux, mon cher poète, continue to unravel me. Let me forget and remember in the same breath. And when the stars gather to listen, they’ll hear our story—a melody of longing, whispered through the ages.

© Beatriz Esmer

Dry Pastel – Kiss Collection