To love is to love when one embraces, that sudden collision of two solitudes, and it is to love in the hollow silence of listening. It is the exhaustion of understanding and the quiet, crystalline mercy of forgiveness. One loves in the unbearable weight of waiting, in the cooling touch that relieves, and even in the sharp, holy needle of affliction. It is a hunger. To love is to lack, to need with a thirst that feels like the very beginning of the world. It is the vertigo of being loved, and the vast, cold desert of when one is … Continue reading The Verbe Alive: A Meditation on Being

I write little. Simple. Tiny words. But I write them as often as you pour water into a flowerpot. Eventually, my clumsy fingers will employ enough finesse to arrange a bouquet of words for you like lemonade and sugarplum or daffodil and ginger, but for now, all I can afford is this. A little water. A little thought. Tiny words to promise you that one day I’ll grow into something beautiful. One day… ❤️ ©️ Beatriz Esmer Continue reading Words…

Clouds for stories…Trees swaying in the breeze.Home made dinner.A good bottle of red.Unspoken words.Silence, except for soft music.A little room to figure things out.Love is happening.Healing is happening.Beauty is happening.Because you don’t need to have it all be perfect, and healed,to share your light.We all have parts unfinished.That’s what keeps us moving,open,and real.❤️ ©️ Beatriz Esmer Continue reading Simple things …

Sometimes, when the sun tiptoes across the horizon, painting the world in hues of possibility, there exists a paradox—a quiet battle waged within the chambers of the heart. The strongest souls, those who wear resilience like armor, rise with the dawn. Their footsteps echo with determination, their smiles a veil concealing the weight they bear. They carry burdens unseen, shoulders squared against the tempests of life. To the world, they are pillars of strength, unwavering and unyielding. But nightfall, ah, that tender shroud of darkness—it whispers secrets. When the stars emerge, these same indomitable souls cradle their fragility. Alone in … Continue reading Sometimes …

The beauty of poetry is a trap of transparency. It is the terrifying luxury of saying so little that every word becomes a wide-open door, or perhaps a mirror that refuses to lie. In its succinctness, it strips us. To write a poem is to stand in a crowded room and realize, with a startle of cold air, that one is entirely naked. It exposes the writer to a great vulnerability, not the kind that seeks pity, but the kind that exists in the breathless space between a heartbeat and a sigh. We reach for powerful language, those heavy, shimmering … Continue reading Poetry

O dia se desfaz lá fora em nuvens para histórias, massas brancas que não pedem licença para mudar de forma. Elas apenas são. Olho as árvores balançando na brisa e percebo que o movimento é uma aceitação. Elas não lutam contra o vento; elas o traduzem em coreografia. Dentro, o cheiro de um jantar caseiro, esse rito de terra e fogo, ancora o que em mim ainda flutua. Abrimos uma boa garrafa de tinto. O vinho é o sangue do tempo, descendo quente, desatando os nós da garganta, mas mantendo intactas as palavras não ditas. Porque há coisas que, se … Continue reading O Inacabado é que nos Salva

I have learned that your hands disappear when you are a child and the toys move on their own. I have learned that if you are still enough birds and people trust you. I have learned that there is a tiny keyhole in my chest and if you unlock it, words and papers and books fall out. I have learned that there are a thousand monkeys with typewriters in my heart, and each one is madly in love with you… ❤ ©️ Beatriz Esmer Continue reading I have learned …

Às tardes,leio nas cores da lua nascenteas palavras de um poema que não escrevo maisE o enredode uma história diferenteda escrita pelas horas do dia. Às tardes,não escrevo as palavras da luae o poema fica lá, no olhar que a contemplae no silêncio quente do poente. Às vezes, a lua é regresso à poesia … 🌙 ©️ Beatriz Esmer Continue reading Tardes

Houve um tempo em que as horas eram contadas em moedas de ferro, pesadas e frias, mas o tempo, esse bicho que rói o invisível, está mudando de pele. Eu sinto sob a pele uma urgência que não é minha, ou talvez seja a única coisa que realmente me pertence. Um dia, meu amor, o amor será a moeda. Não essa palavra gasta que se diz entre um gole de café e um adeus apressado, mas a substância bruta, o valor absoluto com que trocaremos existências no mercado do mundo. Olharemos uns para os outros e o que restará na … Continue reading A Economia do Invisível