The first line of a poem should usher you in—
not with fanfare, but with quiet invitation.
A door half open, its hinges whispering welcome.
Inside, a warm glow spills across the floor,
soft as memory, steady as breath.
There’s an empty seat waiting—
not lonely, but expectant,
as if someone just stood up to fetch tea
and will return with stories still steaming.

You sit. You listen.
The words unfold like linen,
creased with longing, smoothed by time.
They speak of love, of loss,
of the way light bends through old windows
and how silence sometimes says the most.

And just when you think you’ve settled in—
when the rhythm has rocked you gently,
when the metaphors have tucked you in—
the last line comes.
It does not ask permission.
It does not apologize.
It punches you in the stomach,
and you realize:
you were never just reading.
You were being read.

©️Beatriz Esmer