Written in August 2012 

There is this disembodied sadness that comes from having had, and then not having at all. The presence of touch traded in for the presence of absence. How awful it is. Sundays are for coffee and never opening your eyes long enough to look the day in the eye. But it’s night now, and I’m tired, and tomorrow morning, I’ll wake up and we’ll be where we were when we weren’t with each other. Miles and miles and miles away. But still, dwelling on things that shouldn’t be dwelt upon isn’t good for any organ in my body. Let’s talk tonight instead about how beautiful it is to find something that has no history, no story behind it, that just appears to you in your back pockets after years of never knowing it was there. Like the painting you find on the street that has no title, no date, but moves you so profoundly that your soul has crossed state lines. Or something like that. Just distract me. The fates are consoling me by feeding me poems and new poets that I had never heard of till tonight. Beautiful words and beautiful brushstrokes are the things getting me by. I have to do my laundry, but my sheets still smell like him, so I don’t think I want to. Wine-drunk but haven’t drank. I’m feeling the city like a heavy palm on my chest. The sky is the color of scotch tape. Everything looks like a coffee stain today, and though I don’t feel at all beautiful tonight, I think that there’s something incredible brewing underneath all of our feet tonight. There’s something there. I know it…❤️

©️ Beatriz Esmer