There are truths that live in silence. Not because they are weak, but because they are sacred—too vast for language, too tender for touch. Mine was such a truth. A heart not given to you, nor even to myself, but suspended in the ether like a forgotten prayer. It belonged to something greater, something transcendental. And like all things beyond the veil—those you cannot see, cannot touch, cannot taste—it remained cloaked in its own essence, refusing to be simplified.

Yet its presence was undeniable.

It stirred the dust in our quiet corners. It bent the light between our glances. It whispered in the pauses between our words. I felt it. I lived it. I touched you with trembling hands. I tasted the salt of your skin. I opened my chest, raw and unguarded, and laid myself bare before you. I swear, I really did.

But you never saw me.

You skimmed the surface, mistaking skin for soul, mistaking warmth for fire. You never dug deep enough to find the truth buried beneath my ribs. My heart—fragile, fierce, and full—was left in a graveyard of attempts. Each beat a failed resurrection. Each silence a tombstone.

And still it waits.

It waits for the words you never searched for. The ones you never knew you needed. The ones that could have unlocked the door to everything I was. But you never found them. You never looked.

So, I remain here, neglected—not unloved, but unseen. Not untouched, but misunderstood. A ghost of what could have been, lingering in the spaces between your indifference and my devotion.

©️ Beatriz Esmer