I stirred from slumber, my hands entwined with another’s, pulses syncing in a silent dance of intimacy. It was there, in the tender clasp of fingers, that I discovered love—a mosaic of fleeting moments and gentle touches. Love, I realized, is delicate and unassuming. It whispers in the shadows, lingers as an afterthought, and weaves itself into the fabric of the mundane.
It’s the subtle presence in the gaps of life—the sighs and glances exchanged in the transient spaces of subway cars, where souls converge and part, perhaps never to meet again. Love is the accidental treasure trodden underfoot on your way out, the dog-eared page marking a moment’s pause, the melody that escapes your lips when solitude embraces you.

Love is akin to the ache of blossoms plucked from their verdant cradle, a bittersweet symphony of separation and beauty. It’s the multicolored layers of a birthday cake—a tradition lovingly upheld through the years by hands that have aged but hearts that haven’t.
It’s found in the crumpled remnants of notes never sent, in lone socks bereft of their partners, in the charred embers of moments consumed by passion. Love is an epic penned by countless authors—unfinished, its conclusion forever shrouded in mystery.

Yet it endures in the brushstrokes of touch across skin, leaving unseen masterpieces etched upon our beings. It resides in scars and bruises—testaments to love’s fervor—and blooms in smiles that precede kisses as deep as the ocean’s embrace.

Love is the rhythm of another’s essence reverberating through your being, a symphony composed in tandem with the universe—a language universally felt but seldom recalled.

And so it was, in that dream so vivid and profound, I learned that love is not just an emotion but an experience—a tapestry woven by a myriad of hands: holding, caressing, painting invisible art across time and space. It was indeed a beautiful dream—a glimpse into love’s boundless realm.

©️ Beatriz Esmer