I stand like a lonely house, weathered by time and memory. My timeworn walls echo with the whispers of your absence, each creak a yearning for your return. The windows, once vibrant portals to the world, now ache with anticipation, yearning for the moment when you will see me again and breathe life into these forgotten chambers. Until then, I remain, a sentinel of longing, waiting for the day when your footsteps grace my threshold once more.

The seasons pass, and still, I wait. The sun traces its golden arc across the sky, casting shadows upon my worn floors. The wind, a gentle visitor, whispers secrets through the cracks in my walls—secrets meant only for your ears. I listen, my heart echoing each syllable, hoping that one day, you’ll decipher their hidden meaning.

The garden outside, once vibrant with life, now lies dormant. The roses, once crimson and proud, droop their heads in melancholy. They, too, await your return—the touch of your fingers, the warmth of your breath. Perhaps they dream of the day when you’ll walk among them, breathing life into their petals, coaxing color back into their veins.

And the moon? Ah, the moon is my silent companion. It spills silver across my floors, painting patterns of longing. Each night, it watches over me, as if keeping vigil, as if knowing that you’ll come back. Its phases mirror my own—a waxing hope, a waning ache. And when it’s full, I imagine it whispers to the stars, urging them to guide you home.

But time is a cruel artist. It stretches moments into eternities, blurring the edges of memory. I trace your name on the windowpane, my fingertip leaving a faint trail of longing. The rain, too, weeps for you, tapping against the glass, a symphony of sorrow. It tells stories of distant lands, of adventures you’ve embarked upon, of the vastness that separates us.

And so, I remain—a sentinel of love, a keeper of promises. My wooden bones ache, but they hold steadfast. My roof shelters dreams, and my hearth cradles hope. Someday, you’ll return, and I’ll greet you with open doors, with hearthfire ablaze, with windows that no longer ache. Until then, I’ll wait, my soul echoing Neruda’s words:
“so I wait for you like a lonely house till you will see me again and live in me. Till then my windows ache.”

©️Beatriz Esmer