Num deserto sem água
Numa noite sem lua
Num país sem nome
Ou numa terra nua
Por maior que seja o desespero
Nenhuma ausência é mais funda do que a tua.
Goodbye. I'll assume you are happy, as I have no way of knowing.
It's a hard life
Or maybe it's actually not that hard - it's not a life, it's a hopeless drift.
And I am abandoning myself. The emptiness is already there, darkness might soon ensue.
What else can I do? I could, but I can't. Saying anything would bring nothing but hurt and sorrow, so I remain still.
And I drift. Deeper. Wider. Longer.
(Is there anybody out there?)
Anger.
Sometime I'll be irrational. Maybe not today, nor tomorrow, but soon and for the rest of my life.
Blessed
You are blessed, for you do not want to imagine where I am, or even if you did, it would be straightforward - all days in the shadow of my life are the same.
As for me, I am hopelessly picturing where you are, with whom you are, and imagination does run wild. I imagine the good, the not so good, and in all cases, how I am nothing else than a long foregone stain you had rather not come across.
You are blessed, I am damned.
I wish I could do all the things that I can do
For you, to you.
I wish I could break all the chains holding me.
I wish I could say all the things that I should say
Say ‘em loud, say ‘em clear
I wish I could share all the love that’s in my heart.
Remove all the bars that keep us apart.
I wish you could know what it means to be me
You were
My bridge over troubled water.
Now I am drowning on my own sorrow, while you long walked away, after lengthy tears.
Wonderful
wonder who, wonder when
Should I believe that I've been stricken?
Does my face show some kind of glow?
It's too late - to be grateful
It's too late - to be late again
It's too late - to be hateful
On one hand
It is bad. Seeing in someone else's arms, devoted, joyful, oblivious to my existence even being next to you tears my heart apart.
On the other hand, the intensity of the dream makes it real. And that means almost touching you, feeling your perfume, seeing your eyes, admiring your sillouette as you walk.
Today, he even had a name. And I never saw you smile that broadly. I assume it is actually a juxtaposition of reality. It hurts, but somehow, seeing you happy made my day.
At least, I could see you. Your existence again made me being in awe that someone like you graces the world.
If only it would be me. But given it is not, I guess I have to feel happy you are spreading goodness and light around. I shall not be selfish.
That said, if only I could actually see you, feel you. Perhaps one day? And unlike my dream, rather than being oblivious, you reach out of the blue, just saying hello, thabk you for the past, here's my present and future?
On hand, it would destroy me. But on the better hand, I would know I exist, and there's a meaning
Without a thought, without a voice, without a soul
Eu nada te dei
Em teu corpo, Amor,
Eu adormeci
Morri nele
E ao morrer,
Renasci
I want the things which are mine, which belongs to me.
Do you think you are the only one who feels anything?
Probably, not anymore. Unlike myself.
What do you want from me?
I wanted Love. I got it. I wasted it.
I didn't want anything else than what you were giving at each point in time. I just wanted it deeper, not knowing how to live it.
We did end up living it, if only for flashes. To a depth and a width that encompassed our whole will. The kisses when we were by ourselves, away from the world, cocooned in you palace, merged in one, where we could not say where one body started and the other began were the embodiement of what I wanted. And it did not make sense without everything else: making you smile, hugging you when you cried, holding you when you despaired, appreciating your cooking skills, enjoying the tenderness of your voice, making plans, talking about dreams.
I felt Love, I felt Loved. I want to believe I Loved you back, even if I failed miserably to uphold that commitment.
Love is commitment, Love is devotion. It should not be virtual, and yet, here I am, day after day, trying to say to myself, insispidly, that there would be something.
But, Love is not would or should. Love is can and do. And I didn't.
I don't
It kills me.
I want my pictures back
They are mine. They were meant for me, no one else.
I want them. I deserve them. I screwed up.
Pictures, digital reminders of the void in my heart.
Something
I have not felt an urge, i have not had dreams recently. Maybe I am growing old. Maybe missing you for too long has taken its toll. Maybe I got distracted. Maybe the quantic strings that connected us are broken as you moved on.
But I still miss you. Just talking. Just walking. Just breathing. Just knowing in the morning I will see you, somedays disregarding, punishing me for not being courageous, somedays piercing my soul with your eager eyes.
I start worrying I will forget the depth of your kiss. That I will not remember the tenderness of your touch. But most of all, I dread not recalling your voice or closing my eyes and not seeing you, looking at me, mumbling words of Love.
Fountain of pain
Forgetting is caring, I guess.
Would you not forget you would give me an absurd hope: The kind of hope I destroyed.
Soul
На душу не накладеш джгут, як на рану.
Jane Kenyon and I were married for twenty-three years. For two decades we inhabited the double solitude of my family farmhouse in New Hampshire, writing poems, loving the countryside. She was forty-seven when she died. If anyone had asked us, “Which year was the best, of your lives together?” we could have agreed on an answer: “the one we remember least.” There were sorrowful years — the death of her father, my cancers, her depressions — and there were also years of adventure: a trip to China and Japan, two trips to India; years when my children married; years when the grandchildren were born; years of triumph as Jane began her public life in poetry: her first book, her first poem in the New Yorker. The best moment of our lives was one quiet repeated day of work in our house. Not everyone understood. Visitors, especially from New York, would spend a weekend with us and say as they left: “It’s really pretty here” (“in Vermont,” many added) “with your house, the pond, the hills, but … but … but … what do you do?”
What we did: we got up early in the morning. I brought Jane coffee in bed. She walked the dog as I started writing, then climbed the stairs to work at her own desk on her own poems. We had lunch. We lay down together. We rose and worked at secondary things. I read aloud to Jane; we played scoreless ping-pong; we read the mail; we worked again. We ate supper, talked, read books sitting across from each other in the living room, and went to sleep. If we were lucky the phone didn’t ring all day… Three hundred and thirty days a year we inhabited this old house and the same day’s adventurous routine.
What we did: love.
Let me dream of you
I never dreamed that I'd love somebody like you
And I never dreamed that I'd lose somebody like you
Fading
By the day.
Lost in an eternal circle of solitude.
Sometimes, waking up with your faraway whisper. Most times, knowing there is none, maybe just those of devotion to a true Love.
Mine wasn't, it seems.
(And still hoping that out of the shock, the pain it may allow you to trigger an hello, a sentence, a token of a window into your life. I can't open it, but you could.)