Our relationship was a barren desert, a cracked expanse of lifeless soil where no seed dared to take root. I toiled like an alchemist of old, pouring my soul into the attempt to turn dust into gold. I brought my most potent elixirs—my deep wells of understanding, my devotion as unyielding as the sun. I drenched that stubborn seed with the waters of my unconditional love, the fiery rains of ardent kisses, and the intoxicating wisdom of ancient passions spun into the verses of the Kama Sutra. Yet, nothing stirred.

I stood beneath a sky heavy with the weight of hope, waiting for the miracle of spring. I waited as seasons passed, as winds scattered my whispered prayers into the emptiness. The seed refused to sprout, defying my faith, my labor, and the tender ferocity of my dreams.

Even as I waited, my hands grew raw from the effort, my heart hollow from the longing. Still, I waited, clinging to the fragile belief that someday, somehow, the earth might soften, and the seed might break its silence. But eternity stretched before me—a still, unbroken horizon—and I began to see: no spring could ever bloom where the soil refused to embrace the seed.

©️ Beatriz Esmer