s211

i’ve always had my heart divided in at least three parts. there has never been a time in my life, since i can remember, when everyone i love lived around the corner. i’ve gotten used to bus stations and airports - i’m always coming or going somewhere. my heart it’s always missing part of itself. i’ve always been a very welcome, yet still a visit at the places i call “home”.

it feels like breathing for the first time, while under sea. it’s as calm as is intense, loudly deafening all my other senses. its got a magical touch to it, as if nothing worldly could ever begin to explain everything i feel about you. everything you make me feel. your hands are printed on my soul, the way your lips have marked themselves permanently on my skin. as if, for once, i can finally catch my breath. as if, at last, i can finally rest. i’ve been holding out for you for most of my life - maybe all my past lives as well. if i could marry you today, i’d be on my knees this very instant - never to beg, yet in constant adoration of my love. i love you like i’ve found myself again, after a long time of not recognizing what i saw in the mirror. i have loved you without the possibility of return, which is why i feel so safe coming home. lover, you should always come over.

i’ve been reconnecting with everything i used to live for at 13 years old. i’ve been reading more, rewatching my favorite romcoms, exercising for fun and enjoying every meal. i gave my heart to the boy (now, a man) i wish it was mine when i was teenager. i’m friends with my family again, and made my friends into part of said family. i’m still anxiously waiting for every new taylor swift release. i’ve come back to writing, even though i do thrive at my big girl job. tonight, i’m reading an AO3 fanfic, i swear. so many things have changed, but im glad this part of me has stayed the same. 13 year old me was definitely on to something.

o amor mora nos inícios e nos fins. o amor é o meio, o caminho, os encontros e as despedidas. eu sabia que o conhecia anos atrás, quando reconheci que crescemos em direções opostas. de peito aberto, de peito apertado - tudo que sempre senti por você tem morada permanente no meu peito. por isso, eu sei que o conheço: ainda reconheço a cadência em que seu peito bate. feito o nosso amor, retornamos para casa. eu já sabia que o amor continua aquecendo até quando deixa de arder, mas (e que sorte a nossa!) tive o privilégio de experimentar o amor fazer brasa virar fogo outra vez.

i’ve had it explained to me, when a child, about vision loss (or never having it at all). it wasn’t a condition i had, still, as kid, i could only fully understand something by relating to it. so, whenever my eyes would be too full of all the things i wish i couldn’t relate to so easily, i would pick up my diary and write. i’ve had this pink cd player for as long as i can remember, decorated with all of my favorite stickers, and i’d played the saddest songs a child could possibly listen to. as i outgrew the cd player, the stickers obsession and the childish metaphors, i claimed to have forgotten all about the blindness that only infuriating losses can unleash. i have never outgrew the sadness, though. a few days after my 24th birthday, while listening to flatsound on spotify, i’ve opened up my notes app (i still maintain a diary, but a phone’s light’s much easier to hide at 1am). i’ve made my greatest works while terribly sobbing and more than partially blind by it. temporarily, the tears wouldn’t allow me to see. permanently, i’ve gathered that there are all this parts of life i’d never be allowed to comprehend, since i cannot face the depth of its colors - some happinesses haven’t got a translation in braille, and most happinesses don’t translate in poetry. you know, the language us blindingly sad writers speak in.

i read about how love should be cautious. how it should test its waters before a deep dive. i strongly disagree. rationally, of course, i can understand why someone would think so. i’ve had my heart broken - seriously broken, so i do get it. however, isn’t it cuffing up love a stupid misguided attempt to control destiny? furthermore, can one truly love if it happens caged? if it means calculated steps in order to protect a heart that has been made to half-feel its feelings? no, no. it can’t be this. all this suffering and longing and aching and saudade - it has to symbolize something more. love has to surpass the fear of it all. ultimately, love is only love if it is truly above the terror of losing a loved one (true love will make you at piece with, at least, holding on to the careless happily lived memories you created before the end).

i’m strong and resilient and i love myself but i do miss being soft and held and praised. i’m still being touched but i miss craving someone’s touch so much it would make me happy when it happened. i’m not celibate, but i’m just not feeling it like he’d make me feel. fuck. shit. i can’t have him back, nor do i want to. in the end, it was just not good enough. i needed it louder, he needed it hidden. but damn. will i ever find connection like that again? will i spend the rest of my life looking for him in someone else? now, that’s just unfair.

saudadesaudadesaudade saudade!!!

que meu corpo seja belo,

sonhei contigo pela primeira vez desde aquela última que lhe contei, mas, mesmo naquela vez, eu tinha sonhado com o passado, com a nossa viagem de fevereiro. dessa vez, sonhei com o presente, não foi um sonho romântico. pela primeira vez, você apareceu na minha cabeça já tendo seguido em frente - parecia uma parte deletada daquele filme de terror (La La Land). ‘tô enraivecida, fazia dias que não pensava em ti e cá estou eu, 3 da matina, caçando tuas redes sociais, procurando um indício de que alguma coisa tem lhe acordado aí também (ainda que só de vez em quando). nós sempre dissemos sermos “coisa de alma”, “sincronia insana”, mas ‘tá parecendo uma piada de mau gosto agora: a gente nem se fala e você se acha no direito de aparecer na minha cabeça. e pior, nem é para me fazer suspirar de amor ou saudade. não, é só um lembrete, discreto e teimoso, de que talvez isso aqui seja uma conexão inesquecível (ainda que a paixão esteja muito bem enterrada no passado). é só um lembrete, sorrateiro e irredutível, determinado a derrubar os meus cinismos: talvez sejamos mesmo um bando de coincidências que tinham que acontecer - até as que levaram ao fim.

i cried silently,

is it that you’re the love of my life and i’m scared we won’t find each other again,

era uma vez (já que todas as boas histórias começam assim) o início do fim. o irmão do meio do começo. dentre seus irmãos, só era lembrado quando chegava - especialmente porque não era possível impedi-lo de ser. arrebatador, ainda que sorrateiro, o início do fim dava cara para um luto que ainda viria. era como uma sala de espera de todo último verso. não era encerramento, porém punha-se definitivo. e doía, doía muito mais que seu irmão mais novo (o fim).

i’m not quite sure when it started.

eu nasci em uma casa em chamas.