I wish I could weave your sadness, delicately, like a silken thread, unraveling the knots that cling to the corners of your heart. Each tear would be a pearl, strung together in a necklace of empathy, a testament to the weight you carry.
I wish I could listen, truly listen, as you speak of your pain. Your words would be like notes of a melancholy melody, each syllable a brushstroke on the canvas of my understanding. And in the telling, your burden would lighten, the edges of your suffering softened by the mere act of sharing.
I wish I could breathe away your detachment, like a gentle breeze dispersing morning mist. Your heart would find solace in the warmth of my presence, and the winds of change would carry away the remnants of loneliness.
I wish I could build you a shelter, a haven where dreams could take root and flourish. The walls would be made of moonlight, the roof adorned with stardust, and within, your hopes would dance like fireflies on a summer night.
I wish I could hold your darkness in my hands, like a fragile bird with broken wings. I would mend the fractures, stitch by stitch, until you could soar once more, your spirit unburdened by shadows.
I wish I could transform you into a cloud, weightless and free, drifting across the cerulean canvas of the sky. Raindrops would fall from your essence, nourishing the earth below, and your tears would become a gentle baptism for parched souls.
I wish I could celebrate you like a brook, bubbling with laughter, its course winding through meadows and forests. Your journey would be a symphony of ripples, a song of resilience, and the sea would welcome you home with open arms.
I wish I could smooth the rough edges of your intentions, like a sculptor shaping marble into grace. The weight of stone would yield to the lightness of possibility, and your heart would find release in the artistry of transformation.
I wish I could plant you as a seed once more, cradled in the earth’s embrace. The promise of spring would whisper secrets to your roots, urging you to stretch toward the sun, to bloom anew.
And yet, my love, forgive me. For I am but a vessel of words, a poet with ink-stained fingers. My body cannot be your new beginning, nor my shoulders a permanent rest. But know this: in the cadence of verses, in the rhythm of metaphors, I offer you healing—a fragile gift, wrapped in syllables and whispered across the expanse of longing.
Pardonne-moi, for I am but a poet, and my love is woven in poetry.
Copyright © Beatriz Esmer
Beatriz Esmer 