There is, and perhaps will always be, a border no bridge can cross — an unspoken line between who we are and what we wear: the skin that carries our stories, the shades that whisper history.

Your cream glows quiet in the early hours, a softness painted by gentle suns. My brownness, in contrast, is steeped in heat — the kind passed down through fire, through generations who danced in resistance and rested in thunder. You do not burn the way I do. You do not carry the echo of battle in your pores.

We lie tangled, breast over breast, the outline of us a sculpture — almost divine in its symmetry. And still, nothing pulses through me. Your flesh, a shawl draped across mine, does not ignite. I search for intensity, that familiar rush that once surged from proximity, from shared heat. But you remain cool, distant, like a body made of mist.

I gaze into you and wonder: do you consider galaxies the way I do? Do you weigh the gravity of difference? Do you notice how my stars flicker with unrest while yours hum in quiet rotation?

Somehow, I don’t think you do. 😔

©️ Beatriz Esmer