I was overdosing on your sorrow,Drunk on the ache that shaped your soul.Every sigh, a bitter echo,Pulling me deeper into the cold. I want to high on your feelings,Let them burn beneath my skin,Set me floating past the ceiling,A love so fierce, so paper-thin. But love was never just a fever,Or a high we chase in vain.It lives between the quiet shivers—A whisper soft, a sweet refrain. ©️ Beatriz Esmer Continue reading Overdose

Happy Abril! Within the quiet walls of my hermitage, I find solace. Every wind that brushes against my window, every delicate flower that blooms in my garden, they all whisper poetry to my soul. The walls of my mind, sturdy and unyielding, insist that happiness lies within these familiar confines. They tell me love is not essential for survival, that solitude can be its own kind of sanctuary. If only I could leave my mind behind, step into the unknown, and embrace the whispers of Abril. © Beatriz Esmer Continue reading Whispers of Abril

Esta é a história da mulher que restou depois do fim. Uma mulher que morreu sem morrer, depois que o amor se foi e, junto, levou a vida, deixando-a na miséria do existir. Quando ninguém mais permaneceu, sobrou-lhe a convivência com os abandonos. Depois do amor, deixou de pertencer a lugar algum; não houve terra nem mar, servindo-lhe o céu apenas para doer nas noites, quando a tristeza se escuta melhor. Depois do fim, calam-se os ventos. Depois do fim, não há caminhos de volta, apenas um único momento sem princípio nem final, sem alívio, nem mesmo para os horizontes. … Continue reading O que restou…

I am a poor tailor of time. My fingers fumble with the delicate fabric of moments, trying to weave coherence from chaos. But the measurements elude me, slipping through my grasp like sand. The cloth always falls short, leaving frayed edges and unfinished seams. Pockets of hours, those tiny sanctuaries, mock me. They are too small, insufficient for the grand designs I envision. I stitch them together, patchwork-style, hoping to create a quilt of purpose. Yet, the threads tangle, forming knots of uncertainty. My routine becomes a labyrinth, a maze of missed stitches and dropped needles. And in this weaving, … Continue reading Stitching Time

There are many poems which touch us through the years. Poetry has the ability to say what we feel. It’s rhythm sometimes comforts us as a child can be comforted in a rocking chair. It lays bare the soul and pretense and pride are burned away by the fires of yesterday. It comforts us when we feel sadness and despair. It inspires us when hope is almost lost.The night has a thousand eyes,And the day but one;Yet the light of the bright world diesWith the dying sun.The mind has a thousand eyesAnd the heart but one;Yet the light of a … Continue reading Poetry

The sacred is not confined to hallowed halls or holy texts; it is the quietude in a hammock’s sway on a lazy Sunday, the anticipation in an airport’s embrace. It is the stillness between life’s cacophony, a late-night tea, a duvet’s cozy retreat. Sacredness is the aroma of a meal, the earth’s perfume after rain, the silence of a fulfilled desire. It is the window that frames the dying day, the kiss that speaks without words, the surrender of entwined souls. In a room of cherished memories, the sacred finds its home, a gentle reprieve from the mundane. It coexists … Continue reading Sacred

J’ai vu tant de mers, tant de rivages, tant de ciel et de paysages. Chaque horizon s’est offert à moi, dévoilant des secrets infinis et des beautés insoupçonnées. J’ai vu tant d’escales et tant de ports, où chaque arrêt était une nouvelle promesse, une nouvelle aventure à embrasser. J’ai pu me chauffer au creux des îles, où le soleil caressait ma peau et où la brise marine chantait des mélodies douces. Je me suis caché au fond des villes, trouvant refuge dans les rues animées et les coins tranquilles, là où la vie pulsait avec une vigueur inégalée. J’ai marché … Continue reading Tant de Mers

Love runs sometimes too, you see. It gets scared of entrapment, like you and me, and it runs. I feel it at times, slipping between my fingers at the late hours of the night, when I am too tired to keep it despite its will. Love is as elusive a concept as it is to hold on to, when everything screams through imaginary amplifiers those irrefutable differences of our nature. We said the big words much too soon, I fear. We forced our steps to lead us to a safer place, since we both once felt love’s other face and … Continue reading Love

Maybe I feel too much. Maybe I’m alternately manic and depressed. Maybe I’m just emotional. Maybe there’s something wrong with me, but I love it. I love being moved to tears by a piece of music. I love the soul consuming anger at injustice, the abject sadness at others’ despair, the euphoria at sunlight hitting the tree leaves just right. I love becoming overcome and overwhelmed. I love being lost in something greater, or something smaller. I love the urgency. I love feeling like I’m going to burst. Maybe this makes me difficult to be around and maybe this is … Continue reading Maybe

In the quiet hours of the night, love often takes flight, a specter slipping through the grasp of those who wish to clasp it tight. It is a wisp of smoke, a fleeting dream that dances just beyond the beam of our desperate lanterns. We reach out, fingers trembling, but it evades us, always just out of reach, leaving us with the echo of its whisper. Love, they say, is a wild thing. It fears the cage as much as the bird within fears the sky. It is the untamed wind that howls at the door, the river that overflows … Continue reading Sometimes love says goodbye