Tag: love

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Dear Every Person in My Life,

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In life’s tapestry, woven with threads of time, you stand as a luminous strand—a constellation of moments, both fleeting and eternal. Past, present, future—your essence dances across the fabric of my days, leaving footprints on the shores of memory. To You, Present: Your footsteps echo softly in the corridors of now. Your laughter, a sunbeam that warms my soul. We share this fragile moment, suspended like dewdrops on morning petals. You are the ink in my unwritten chapters, the melody humming beneath my breath. I honor your presence—the way you hold my hand when storms gather, the way your eyes mirror … Continue reading Dear Every Person in My Life,

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Poetry of the night

beatrizesmer

In the quiet of night, when the world hushes its clamor and the stars gather to witness our secrets, I find myself tracing the contours of memory. There are things I can’t unread, etched into my senses like whispered confessions. Skin, oh, how it speaks! Beneath my fingertips, it unravels stories—the delicate script of longing and desire. Each ridge, each curve, a chapter waiting to be explored. It’s like Braille, a language of touch that transcends mere sensation. I read you there, my fingers deciphering the map of your existence—the rise and fall of your breath, the hidden scars, the … Continue reading Poetry of the night

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Sometimes …

beatrizesmer

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 …

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If I Insist

beatrizesmer

If I insist in your mouth, in your prayer,Do not mistake my fervor for impatience.I am not a beggar, but a gardener tending fragile blooms.Take good care of me, as you would a delicate secret. Guardian of Whispers I am the echo that lingers in sacred spaces,The hushed syllables that cling to your breath.When you speak my name, do so with reverence—For I am woven into the fabric of your longing. The Art of Holding Back Let not the longing seep through your fingers,Like sand slipping from an open palm.We are custodians of moments, guardians of memories—And sometimes, love thrives … Continue reading If I Insist

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The Poet’s Solitude

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What has made me a poet? Only this: those silent ravings—the tempests that churn within when the world presses too close. Even in the arms of those I have most loved, there blooms an ache—an insatiable hunger for solitude. The desire to escape—to slip through the cracks of existence, to be alone with my thoughts—becomes a beacon. It pulses, immutable, like a distant star. And in that yearning, all becomes uncanny—the familiar streets, the faces, the whispered secrets. I have loved deeply—oh, how I have loved! But love, too, can be a tempest—a wild sea that threatens to engulf the … Continue reading The Poet’s Solitude

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Threads of Creation

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The masterpiece begins with the pencil sketch—a hesitant line on blank paper. It trembles, unsure of its purpose. But within that graphite stroke lies the seed of creation—the spark that will ignite galaxies. The novel, too, emerges from chaos. Its first draft is a tempest—a whirlwind of characters, plot twists, and half-formed sentences. The words stumble over each other, seeking coherence. Yet, within this messiness, stories take root—their roots burrowing deep into the soil of imagination. And the symphony? Ah, it begins with a simple hum—a melody whispered over morning coffee. The composer sips, eyes closed, listening to the notes … Continue reading Threads of Creation

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Eternal Tides

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I thought of love on a rainy day—a canvas of gray where longing dripped from the heavens. The sun, that relentless voyager, sought refuge behind veils of cloud. I wished for its retreat—for eternity—to let the world bask in the melancholy of your presence. You, my dear enigma, were the gloom—the mist that clung to ancient oaks, the fog that whispered secrets. Depth and mystery swirled within you, like hidden galaxies waiting to be explored. On that dull and darkened day, you were the riddle I yearned to unravel. And I? I was the rain—the silent messenger. I fell from … Continue reading Eternal Tides

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Whispers of the Unseen

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In the hallowed corridors of childhood, I discovered secrets—the kind that shimmer like dew-kissed spiderwebs at dawn. My hands, once tangible and solid, would vanish when I least expected. They’d slip through the veil between reality and wonder, leaving me a mere observer in my own tale. And oh, the toys—they harbored mischief. When the room darkened, they stirred, their wooden limbs creaking. Tin soldiers marched, porcelain dolls pirouetted, and plush animals whispered secrets. I’d lie there, eyes wide, watching their silent ballet—a clandestine performance for my eyes alone. Stillness became my ally. If I held my breath, the birds … Continue reading Whispers of the Unseen

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Ephemeral Echoes

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Sometimes, I am gifted fragments of existence—fleeting glimpses that dance before my eyes. These delicate shards of reality, like fireflies in twilight, refuse to fade. They cling to my soul, etching themselves into the tapestry of memory. There exists a place—an ethereal threshold where dreams and waking life intertwine. Perhaps it is real, or perhaps it resides within the secret chambers of my heart. Regardless, I have visited it countless times, tracing its contours with the tender brushstrokes of my imagination. On that porch—a sanctuary of weathered wood—I sit, gazing out over a sun-kissed yard. The sun, a benevolent artist, … Continue reading Ephemeral Echoes

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Echoes of Absence

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There is a disembodied sadness, a phantom ache that lingers in the hollows of memory. It emerges from the chasm between having and not having, a silent lament for what once was and what now eludes our grasp. The presence of touch, once warm and intimate, has been bartered away, replaced by the presence of absence—a void that gnaws at the edges of our souls. How awful it is—the way time unravels our certainties, leaving us with frayed threads of longing. Sundays, those quiet interludes, become vessels for coffee and the art of not opening our eyes wide enough to meet the day’s gaze. We cocoon ourselves in half-slumber, shielding … Continue reading Echoes of Absence