Love has this way of arriving like a misplaced object—quiet, insistent, a secret told to the stone in the middle of the road. It does not shout; it murmurs with the fatigue of someone who has traveled leagues just to say: “There is no reason for flight.”

We are born small, a fragile seed under the weight of the world. But love—that stubborn plant—insists on breaking the pavement. It grows not into a flower for a vase, but into a gnarled, magnificent shadow that covers everything.

The Invisible Geometry

It is not always a spectacle. Often, love is:

• The unseen draft through a closed door.

• The smell of coffee and old books.

• The salt of a tear that doesn’t know why it fell.

It disguises itself as a mother’s tired hand or the hollow echo of a friend’s laughter. It hides in the dust of forgotten corners, waiting for someone to notice that even silence has a pulse.

The Old Machinery

Ancient, rusted, yet perfectly oiled, love survives the clocks. It is outdated and eternal. And here, in this corner of the world, my love is a quiet gift—a warmth that doesn’t ask for permission, wrapping itself around the soul like a coat in a cold Minas winter.

Happy Holidays. May the season be less about the lights and more about that quiet, crooked grace that binds us all. 🎄🙏🏾🪅

©️ Beatriz Esmer