branca espuma, folhas mortas

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As folhas mortas de uma orquídea sobre a mesa e no carpete. Folhas modestas e, agora, transparentes. Respiro fundo porque a morte chegou. Toco as folhas de uma orquídea que fotografei e que amei enquanto me desentendia contigo. Paira no ar um cheiro de granizo. O ar é denso. Chove. Eu me acomodo na cadeira prestes a parir tua falta. Tua falta concreta e absurda. Tua falta que me espera. Tua falta para a qual volto todas as noites. Uma falta que quase não pesa, estalactite presa no teto do meu quarto. De onde ventavam antes sons e cheiros de amor. Ato barbantes feitos de fio dental, escovo os dentes com uma pressa doente de quem lembra que fazíamos quotidiano parecer uma sinfonia. Uma ópera de dois. Eu me deitava na cama e te espiava. Escovava os dentes com preguiça, a preguiça que te fazia rir e me espichava, como uma gata, para te mostrar meu corpo. Eu não tinha medo de te encontrar. Mas sempre pensei no dia da partida. É difícil e quase sobre-humano ficar entre a felicidade de alguém e a nossa própria. Ficar entre um mundo de possibilidades e o que eu tinha para te ofertar. Mas quem foi que disse que tem que ser “ou isto, ou aquilo”? Nossos medos. Nossos passados. Nossas feridas. Nossas chagas ainda tão abertas. E as palavras que foram ditam para apenas amenizar.

Junto as folhas da orquídea. Cada uma delas corresponde a um segredo, a um amor que tive só por ti. Pela forma como nossas mãos lutavam, pelo ar frio que nos trazia de volta. Tu fizeste as pazes com a realidade. Eu me torno cada dia mais cética. Tu querias uma missão, eu queria um amor maior que essa missão. Eu queria a disciplina de estar. Tu querias voar para longe e poder voltar. Tu pensaste que eu te esperaria. Te esqueceste que também quero, sou.

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