I'm left guessing

Nothing else I can do.

A luz que já não sou

Adormeci
Sem te ter a meu lado
Um corpo sem alma
Guitarra sem fado
Um sonho na noite
E olhei-me ao espelho
Umas mãos de criança
Num rosto de velho

In the night, in the day

 Miss you. It's the truth.

The less I know the better

 

In my dreams

I arrive home to see you writing on the wall.

Infinite

Recognize and use the spiritual power of the infinite. The intangible represents the real power of the universe. It is the seed of the tangible. It is living void because all forms come out of it, and whosoever realizes the void is filled with life and power and the love of all beings.

It's not a prison

 I put myself in. It is a tight cage, where my heart suffocates.

just instead

And they're handing down my sentence now

And I know what I must do

Another mile of silence while I'm

Coming back to you

There are many in your life

And many still to be

Since you are a shining light

There's many that you'll see

But I have to deal with envy

When you choose the precious few

Who've left their pride on the other side of

Coming back to you

Even in your arms I know

I'll never get it right

Even when you bend to give me

Comfort in the night

I've got to have your word on this

Or none of it is true

And all I've said was just instead of

Coming back to you

It was a Saturday

 I was ridiculous - throwing away life, joy, happiness, Love, like that. 

There has been no lower bottom in my life than that day. 4 years ago. 

And I burn

 For you

Any given time

Any given day, I am probably thinking of you.

So not until the morning, then

 

Warm nights

But all I think about is the cold nights.

We are what we live

That's all.

It’s to do with knowing and being known. I remember how it stopped seeming odd that in biblical Greek, knowing was used for making love. Whosit knew so-and-so. Carnal knowledge. It’s what lovers trust each other with. Knowledge of each other, not of the flesh but through the flesh, knowledge of self, the real him, the real her, in extremis, the mask slipped from the face. Every other version of oneself is on offer to the public. We share our vivacity, grief, sulks, anger, joy… we hand it out to anybody who happens to be standing around, to friends and family with a momentary sense of indecency perhaps, to strangers without hesitation. Our lovers share us with the passing trade. But in pairs we insist that we give ourselves to each other. What selves? What’s left? What else is there that hasn’t been dealt out like a deck of cards? Carnal knowledge. Personal, final, uncompromised. Knowing, being known. I revere that. Having that is being rich, you can be generous about what’s shared — she walks, she talks, she laughs, she lends a sympathetic ear, she kicks off her shoes and dances on the tables, she’s everybody’s and it don’t mean a thing, let them eat cake; knowledge is something else, the undealt card, and while it’s held it makes you free-and-easy and nice to know, and when it’s gone everything is pain. Every single thing. Every object that meets the eye, a pencil, a tangerine, a travel poster. As if the physical world has been wired up to pass a current back to the part of your brain where imagination glows like a filament in a lobe no bigger than a torch bulb. Pain.

Circo de feras

Escrevo-te de uma outra vida. De uma outra língua, de uma outra nação. Somos mais do que a vista alcança, e se as minhas palavras não chegam, tanto não chegam numa língua como noutra.

Escrevo-te hoje, enquanto navego num comboio antes do pôr do sol. As luzes do meu país brilham em milhões de tonalidades e apercebo-me que nunca partilhei a totalidade do que ele tinha para te oferecer. Tal como eu nunca senti os teus países pelos teus olhos, pela tua mão, pelo teu coração.

No final do dia, é o mesmo sol, que também te ilumina. As montanhas e rios são outros. As estrelas as mesmas. Os suspiros ausentes, eventualmente, agora são outros. Não sei. Não posso saber. E isso não me angustia, trucida-me.

Percorrer o meu país de comboio é percorrer o meu passado, presente. Só o futuro está sempre ausente. Tu estás sempre ausente. 

Runaway train

Somehow I'm neither here nor there

I remember

The moment I looked at your perfect naked bossom. The smoothness when I touched and caressed, my cheeks brushing when holding you close, the salty, sweet taste when kissing. How soft and firm, in an almost paradoxical fashion. The way they touched when you culminated and gently descended towards my face, a slight arch ensuring nothing else touched my chest, still trembling, fondling for a brief moment while gasping from joy. The moment I would smoothly descend my hand through your cleavage while you were quivering on the couch, your head held back, your lips begging for a kiss. How I abided, and finally held tight, my hand the exact size to hold and stroke. How minutes later I would be struggling to unlock, unveil that magic again, aching to see in all purity that unclad beautiful shape of yours. The moments I held you from behind, with a firm grasp and playful fingers. 

This why dreams are so vivid: I remember every detail. That makes it all more painful, this homesickness of not actually feel, taste, see, smell, and hold my head close and listen to your heart. 

These dreams seem like a bridge to nowhere, an infinite connection that never unveals the actual paradise that is being next to you. A bridge too far, a bridge I cannot cross. And I know you would have been on the other side, had I not abandoned, ran away cowardly.