I write about the homes in people I’d like to rest in,
Not the walls or windows,
But the quiet corners of their hearts—
Where laughter lingers like incense,
And sorrow is folded gently into drawers.

I dream of porches made of patience,
Of kitchens warm with kindness,
Of eyes that open like sunlit rooms
Where I might leave my shoes at the door
And finally breathe.

Some souls are mansions of mystery,
Others, cabins carved from solitude.
But I search for the ones
Built with soft-spoken truths,
Where silence doesn’t echo,
It embraces.

I write to find them—
Those rare architectures of love,
Where I could rest not just my body,
But the weight I carry in words.
And maybe, just maybe,
Be welcomed home. ❤️🙏🏾

©️ Beatriz Esmer