There are hours when words rot in the mouth. They dissolve into the vastness of another’s pain, dry leaves falling without weight, without impact. We murmur calm down, it will pass, do not worry, yet these are borrowed certainties—thin shields offered with pure hands, yet utterly useless against the shadow.

The soul, in its trembling nakedness, does not beg for an explanation. The soul begs for a lap. It begs for the secret, heavy rest of an embrace. Fatigue is an invisible animal that prowls our ribs, whispering that no recipe, no pre-packaged encouragement, can ever stitch us back together. Everything we say—and perhaps everything we could ever say—feels like a lie when the world collapses.

And then, in the exact center of this ruin, tenderness improvises.
It does not ask for permission. It is a sudden touch, an unexpected shelter, an extended hand that knows nothing of tomorrow. We simply sit beside the wreckage. We allow the other to scatter their shards and halves upon our skin, letting them bleed out the excess of a world that has grown too loud. Without magic. Without answers. Just the pulse of blood against blood.

Sometimes, the life that screams inside us demands only silence.

It is within this hollow space—this wordless sanctuary—that something resembling healing quietly happens. Because in the end, nobody is saved by syntax. We are saved by what we make the other feel. ❤️🙏🏾

© Beatriz Esmer