It is the hour when the world is not yet born, or perhaps, it is the hour when it has already died and we are all that remains. I am writing to you from the silence that vibrates.

Do you remember? The first time we collided. It wasn’t a meeting; it was a shipwreck. In the collision, I became a cartographer of the hurt you carry. I mapped the geography of your scars, those silver lines where the soul tried to leak out but stayed.

I felt the soft roar in your sides—a wild, animal thing—turning into rippling waves as I traveled across the sea of your body. To touch you is to risk drowning, and yet, I have never breathed better than when submerged in you.

You became a waterfall, didn’t you? A liquid weight meandering through the valley of my breasts, spilling past the sandbanks of my navel. You veered toward the rocks indenting my hip bones, seeking the hard edges of my existence just to break against them.

I looked at you, and for a moment, I ceased to be “I.” I gazed into the cerulean windows ditched behind your eyelids—those secret rooms where you keep the things you cannot say.

“Everything in the world began with a yes. One molecule said yes to another molecule and life was born.”

I saw that yes in you. Moonlight has never looked this beautiful, cascading onto the gilded glass of your eyes. It is a light that does not illuminate; it consumes. You are the gold and the dark, and I am simply the one who watched the moon find its home in your stare.

It is 3 AM. The clock is a pulse. I am here, and you are the geography I choose to get lost in, forever.

❤️

© Beatriz Esmer