I slide my fingers along the bone of your spine—that rigid, hidden ladder of the self. It is a cold arithmetic of touch. With a light, almost vulgar breath, I murmur how hollow your friends are, those paper dolls flickering in the periphery of a drawing room. But then, the silence arrives. I stop.

You are not they. You are a dense, terrifyingly quiet forest.

Your beauty is a thing that overflows its own vessel; it does not stop at your skin but spills into the air like a scent one cannot name. It is a facade, yes, but a facade so absolute it becomes the only truth. I look at you, and I do not just see; I read the unwritten ink of your thoughts. I am swallowed by your vagueness—that holy, blurry space where a soul chooses not to be defined.

©️ Beatriz Esmer