Poetry of the night

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 promises etched into your very being.

And then, on my tongue, your name dances—a sweet syllable, a secret shared between heartbeats. It tastes of moonlight and stolen kisses, of whispered dreams and tangled limbs. Your name, a constellation in the night sky, woven into the fabric of my longing. I savor it, roll it around like a prayer bead, invoking you in every silent moment.

Night?becomes our accomplice. It paints your name across the cityscape—in streetlights that flicker like hesitant lovers, in the moon’s silver glow that spills over rooftops. Your name, a clandestine graffiti, adorning the walls of my heart. I trace it with my gaze, wondering if you, too, look up and see the same celestial ink.

And so, in this quiet communion of senses, I find solace. Your skin, your name—it’s all there, imprinted on my soul. Unreadable, yet unforgettable. A love story whispered in the language of touch, etched into the very fabric of existence. And as the moon winks, and the night holds its breath, I surrender to the beautiful ache of remembrance.

There are things I can’t unread, my love. But oh, how I cherish every word.

Copyright ? Beatriz Esmer