Blue

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Eu sorrio e sangro. Viajo. Urge em mim o sentido de estar. Neruda nem poderia imaginar como queima a alma de quem ama. Primavera. Um dia volto a escrever e a me deleitar com o idioma que sei melhor. Me esvazio na espera. Me retraio. A ira me protege. Isso ela me diz. Desperto para mais um dia. Ainda que de noite. Surgem sons abafados no quarto. Ao longe, uma banheira branca e insolente nos acena. Nem tu sabias. Nem eu. Nem a paz que eu sentia. Relaxei em teus ombros. Me senti unicidade ao viajar contigo neste mar que nos faz flutuar. Nem tu, nem eu -- poderiamos ter escolhido um futuro? Confesso, diluo, construo algo que soa bem enquanto espero. Suspeitas de nada. Pensas que durmo, enrolada na colcha branca que foi um presente inesperado. Dessa cor densa de meu corpo, eu vasculho, tento encontrar um sinal. Sina. Sina de querer encontrar. Acreditar ainda que.

Dizem que nao existem mais ilhas desconhecidas. Quem disse que eles estao certos? Obrigada Jose Saramago.
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