I have learned that your hands disappear when you are a child and the toys move on their own.

Not because of magic, but because wonder is a kind of gravity—pulling the strings of wooden puppets and wind-up dreams. In those moments, the world conspires to play with you. You are small, and so everything else becomes alive.

I have learned that if you are still enough, birds and people trust you.
Stillness is a language older than words. It tells the sparrow you mean no harm, and the stranger that you are listening. It’s how the wind decides to rest on your shoulder, and how secrets find their way into your pocket.

I have learned that there is a tiny keyhole in my chest, and if you unlock it, words and papers and books fall out.

They tumble like autumn leaves—poems half-written, letters never sent, stories waiting for someone to read them aloud. My heart is a library with no closing hours, and you, somehow, have the only key.

I have learned that there are a thousand monkeys with typewriters in my heart, and each one is madly in love with you.

They write sonnets in banana ink, tap out confessions between jungle beats, and swing from sentence to sentence, hoping you’ll notice the way every paragraph ends with your name. It’s chaos. It’s devotion. It’s the most ridiculous kind of romance.

…and I’m so silly 😜
But maybe silly is just another word for brave. For loving without logic. For believing that toys move, birds speak, and hearts write novels. Maybe silly is the truest thing I’ve ever been.
❤️

©️ Beatriz