In the quiet twilight of surrendered dreams, where the poetry of gaze fades into the mundane, love whispers its farewell. It is in the moment when windows lose their magic, becoming mere glass and frame, and the stars above are reduced to mere points of light, distant and cold. Love retreats, a silent deserter in the face of life’s relentless march, leaving behind the intervals of dreams—those brief escapes that punctuate our days and hours with fleeting respite.
Love withers in the drought of recidivism aridity from within, a bond once supple now rigid, a captive thorn in the heart’s side, a wound self-cultivated, festering in silence. It is the birth of distances, invisible yet palpable, that stretch between us and life, us and the other, until we stand isolated, islands adrift in a sea of disconnection.
Yet, there lingers the enigma of love that never perished, a sentiment that defies conclusion, for it has no end, yet paradoxically, ceases to exist. What line, word, or absence delineates the frontier between what we were and what we shall never be again? It is a question without answer, a horizon ever receding as we approach.
Perhaps love’s cessation is not an end but a revelation—a realization that it never blossomed into what it was destined to become: love. For true love, the kind that imprints itself upon the soul, never dies. It lives on, a ghostly presence felt in the half-light of memory, an echo of tenderness that time cannot erode. True love is the eternal flame that burns within the ruins of the heart, a beacon for all that might have been, a testament to the enduring power of the human spirit to love, despite all odds.
Copyright © Beatriz Esmer
Beatriz Esmer 