cinnamon

With every degree that goes up so goes my longing. 

For water, for the breeze

For the salt.

With every blossom that perfumes I feel their colors.

Pink, blue and red, all cleaning up

The Grey mess.

With every ray the sun shines, my soul burns

In exasperation, in wanting

In warmth.

With every step on green grass I can spy the birds

I hear the music and I feel alive.

With every fresh breath I breath

I am curious to see where each day 

This season will bring me.

With every note of every song 

I remember that this summer I am free

And you are not around 

to kill me.

Emptiness Machines

 I wish every door was transparent so that we could see what's inside before we go in. But that would make life quite predictable. No more speakeasys. No more cupboard under the stairs. No more hidden passageways. No secrets. Still, it would be nice to at least get a glimpse before going in. 

Perhaps it is the opening that needs to change. Instead of opening doors and taking 10 steps into the dark, don't go. You can't assume a light switch is somewhere to be found. The reality is that some rooms are just permanently dark, and if you walk in, you might have trouble finding your way back. The flicker of light coming from outside remains for most. You would just need to find a way back. Still, when deep in the dark, you will get hurt because you can't see the edges on your way. Unfortunately, many people get so hurt by these hidden-in-the-dark objects that they don't make it out. Even when they see the light under the door. I almost didn't make it. Maybe I shouldn't have gone in.

Other people seem to enjoy just jumping all in and getting lost. Maybe because they like to solve the puzzle of finding their way back. Maybe because in the dark they are allowed to scream. Maybe because they don't actually have any light coming from outside. So they get used to darkness, to hurt, to screaming for help and not being found. It's easy to get used to the dark and forget you've seen light before. I almost forgot it. But had I not gone in, I wouldn't be aware of the existence of these dark rooms behind attractive doors.

Maybe we just need a balanced approach to going in. Open the door slowly and wait for your eyes to get used to the new space. Locate the nearest emergency exit. Do a quick scan of the room to see if what's inside is really worth the detour. If it's really impossibly dark and you can barely discern where you are, don't take any steps in. Step back. Turn your back and close that door. Close it well, and don't go knocking again. At least not for a long time until you see a renovation crew going in and changing everything. 

If you're inside now, in the dark, start making your way back to the light, honey. You can still avoid further bruises, you can shake off the familial feeling darkness gives you. I bet there's another door full of light just at the end of the corridor. And I promise you, the trip there is worth it. Flowers don't grow in the dark. Art needs spotlights. Love needs clarity. Dark rooms are emptiness machines, and they will do everything to hollow you out. Don't let that happen. Turn around and leave with your eyes wide open. Back to yourself, back to light.

braiding

 Vivo feito fios de lã que se entrelaçam. Ainda não vejo a roupa pronta. Vejo já uma manga que se costura, amarrando passado, presente e futuro. Vejo contornos. Caibo. Deixo a tecelã costurar com meu sangue, meu suor. Lavar a peça com minhas lágrimas. Confio em cada ponto dado. As vezes assusto com a velocidade das agulhas que giram e mudam de mãos assim tão rápido. Pisco e mais um grande pedaço se fez. Outras horas mal vejo progresso. As agulhas de canto, paradas. Sem entrelaços nem entremeios, apenas silêncio e sossego. Antes de ver a primeira manga achava que esses momentos durariam pra sempre. Não confiava que daquilo uma roupa sairia. Dormia pensando ser rolo de lã deixado embolado. Quando finalmente a manga se mostrou parei de duvidar das calmarias. Veio tão rápida do ombro ao pulso que confesso, até pedi a tecelã que acalmasse. Mas sigo, ainda que cansada. Quero chegar ao dia em que saberei parar, sem que toda a costura se desfaça. Espero a hora em que mesmo incompleta eu possa me contentar com o silêncio das agulhas descansadas. Por enquanto, sigo buscando os fios para juntá-los em ponto. Sigo explicando a tecelã o que quero e não quero. Ela ri da minha inocência de achar que meu querer é tanto assim. Aprendi a esperar a magia sem pedir em voz alta. Vejo a gola se fazendo e peço um momento, preciso descansar. Mas quem trabalha é ela. Eu, apenas manequim e fio em forma de gente. Ainda assim, me fazer todos os dias é esforço monumental. Peço a tecelã apenas graça e um pouco menos de frio, para que eu siga sendo costurada. 

all star

 Parece ser novo, 

Mas são só memórias. 

Parece você, 

não é.

Ainda o mesmo,

Perco o sentido.

Você metamorfose,

Eu camaleão.

Mas se somos outros 

Memória não é. 

Seus cachos no meu colo,

Sofá de couro em dia de sol.

Nando tocando,

As gírias do seu vocabulário.

Não sei bem dizer 

se o tempo voou.

Não sei se foi ontem

Mas o perfume ficou.

Os cachos se foram,

O carinho ficou.

Tanto fiz pra te doer,

Hoje volto, capoto.

Não me deixe só 

Te peço, perdão. 

Fui menina

Aos dezesseis anos.

Quem sabe eu não volto,

Seus verdes nos meus.

Visão distorcida,

Sonho da mãe.

N, como um elo

Amarelo, 

entre nós dois.