I am the verse that takes your name and anything sacred—
that lends itself to sunsets painted in our colors,
to words that confess the ache of longing,
to hopes whispered in the language of love that heals.

When imperfect tenses spill from misplaced conversations,
we dream in the future-more-than-perfect we deserve to walk by.
To love is to change the home of the soul,
to live in the other.

Breathe slowly—respecting your pauses, your commas—
dating each of our silences.
I lengthen my lashes across your back
and carry your tiredness on my shoulders.

I want to wander across your chest
and die in your shelter,
only to be reborn in your arms.
Your skin is my refuge.
Your absence, my wreckage.

What does unloved want,
if not to die and be reborn in poetry?
What does loneliness crave,
if not to abandon its old bohemia?

If half is in love,
wouldn’t all of it be?

I want to trace your desires with my fingertips
and erase old manuscripts with my laughter.
Passion—a maelstrom of bodies.
Your hands in mine.
Your life as my own story.

The sacred testimony of your bare skin
against my fingers,
skirting my anxiety,
curves and cravings held in your kiss.

To feel, in the flesh, the fullness of us—
opening smiles as I open the windows to life,
blessing you with the salt of my words,
with this love… ❣️

©️ Beatriz Esmer