A cup of tea and a blue house: in the dark

Your colors are also mine. In a very abstract afternoon, when we had tea, when we hoped for, when we suspended the laughter, when you embraced the beauty of being, when everything in us was both the same and the opposite. When. I was reading Kandinsky, and when the notes were subtle, when I fell in love. And love is vast, complex and it takes me places. It makes me swim. I almost drowned. It is been a week already, I almost drowned. I am confessing my miseries and glories. The misery of never getting enough and the glory of seeing love and immersing myself in its waters. There was a silence and then I heard love moving around me and all of a sudden that pool became so much more than I had anticipated, and my arms were not fast enough to hold onto you and just love.

I stutter – call me Secret. I sweat words – call me Music. I write – call me – Free.

There are no more puzzles. Everything is going to be straightforward. Staccato.

I look at the mirror – mini squares – mini eyes watching us. Not only hold me at night, after, but also always. Infuse me with all of you, do not bring me leftovers from your past. Future has to get us going somewhere, somewhere, somewhere. In the sea, I need more words. We need more time. Fool Chronos with me.

There was this blind lady talking to me, touching my arm, smiling at me and telling me about the coffee she always brews the night before. The night before when I was thinking of you, resting my head against stars, waltzes, and the exact notion that I was in the wrong place, awaken, thirsty, almost half of what I can be. That blind lady told me about history and we were chatting – she was walking by my window while I was waiting for a sign, listening to an indistinct song, sipping from a glass of port, and I felt like a Benedetti verse, so – she stopped in front of my blue and small house to tell me about the things she can see.

O poema está no ponto. Ponto de encontro. No ponto exato. Na batida da música, nas luzes, que apagadas, me deixam ver teu semblante, movendo-se, movendo-se, movendo-se. Entrega-me nada menos que tua alma. Não posso viver sem tuas asas.

Image: Ballet of Flowers, Salvador Dali. (1980).