your eyes are the night dancing and
your arms are gentle and
your hands are the perfect tracing
to the most lost of them all.
you are a drawing book and your cape
is black and solid and it needs to be
seamed every year by handmade work
cause your moves are harsh and your
sharp bones can not be held so you cut;
you cut everything you touch, trimming
artistic pieces of paper no money could pay for and
your blood is crayon so the paintings don’t change color.
you are my amber collar — i can’t sleep as it hones my neck
so i take it off and i throw it away
and it never breaks. you are amber held
by hollow inside a beautiful pendant
and you are not baltic but you are far from being impure,
you took very long to be made by the rarer pine trees
so your soul is green and your pith is frosty.
you were born from a wound in a bark, my love,
and that is why you are so sad.
stop crying your heart out, my love.
stop worrying this much, stop
and cut your root so you can
float and if you touch the ground
again, it’s only cause you want to feel
how it is like grass in your feet.
stop cause if you go this way you
will never be free and your lungs
need fresh air — they are so tired
i can see your chest giving up,
as you barely move your midriff.
you need to breathe but when i say it
i mean real oxygen made of stardust
and that’s when you will be gently
reached by the universe and its all
and it won’t be heavy, i promess
it won’t cause you remember now you
are floating but first, my dear, you
need your foot to never be jailbird again.
maybe he needs to heal and i’m having the selfishness to
think i’m the only one with bruises. anyone would be hurt
after such a hard fall along a shrapnel-made ground
but he told me he would be back by the time
the sun hide himself and now i can’t see the mountains
as they were blocked by the eventide.
i could hear the water once music to my bones
but now the one who took him away and i hate the water.
the wind took him away and the riptide and the erosion, i hate all of them
and now my hands are orange so next to the fire but i don’t feel warm
and my socks are thick but my feet are cold cause they are
the edge of my eagerness.
the morn never came as i spent every hour occupying a wood chair,
cause i need to be with someone i know.
she is grass and she is fingers crossed
and she is wild but stuck in her own head
as she moves quietly caring the
weight of knowing too much for her age.
she worries too much and that is her closet monster,
waking her up every night throwing
wonder arrows shaped as thin as stardust
but they can destroy and they do destroy.
he is ungrounded since seven when
he let his bird go out of the cage and so did he.
he never came back to that body and now
he is a free ghost using a skin for convenience.
using hands to touch and eyes to see.
he sees everything and he tastes like citrus,
he smells like wet sand and wet hair,
he looks like heaven and moves like a
speeding car on an empty road.
his craving is so ease and nature speaks to him.
she is earthbound not because she wants.
he is earthbound for the joy of it.
*Uma nota em português: por algum motivo eu sinto que algumas das coisas que escrevo soam melhor em inglês. Não sei se é pretensão, se é uma questão visual-sensorial-fonética, se é crise de identidade…? Alguém já sentiu isso?