I don’t want to write about love. It hurts. Too many nights have passed where I have learned to find solace in the middle of the bed, accustomed to the emptiness on either side. The stories of when love existed in my life are too precious, too painful to retell. The beautiful beginnings, the way passion ignites and consumes, how it fills one with unimaginable substance—they are memories I cannot bear to revisit.

No, I don’t want to. Because love for me was once as magnificent as the ocean, as breathtaking as sunsets, as boundless as the night skies. I loved with everything I had, without fully grasping the depth or meaning of it all. Those words, those feelings, have all been expressed, read, and echoed through countless hearts. My absent musings on love won’t be missed; they are just another drop in an endless sea.

I don’t want to reflect on how love can be as gentle as a breeze, how it can ignite like a flame and extinguish just as swiftly. I don’t want to acknowledge the longing for a deeper connection, the fear of questioning its reality if it comes, and the anxiety over how long it will last.

It hurts. I apologize if I seem a martyr, for that was never my intention. If I reveal the good parts of myself, it is only fair to show the scars too. I don’t want to write about love. I yearn to feel it, to be enveloped in the weightlessness of understanding arms. To find someone who perceives love as I do, who doesn’t need to pen down its essence either, but simply live it, breathe it, and cherish it together. ❤️😞

Written in 2016

©️ Beatriz Esmer