Call me for a coffee


I need to tell you about the weather, how kind he has been to me; about the insatiable reality that, on the other hand, remains brutal to my dreams (those left over) even after I have deposed ours.

Tell you about how I slowly realize that some things have never changed and others don’t need to.

Tell you that I went on and found, ahead, a poor world without you.

Life in black and white again – instead of complaining, I find that’s the best part: being able to color it again.

I was finally able to name the space I always asked for – loneliness; and the air I sought – asthma; I sought the peace I left home – I’ve been breaking the furniture, pulling my hair out.

I have to say that I repainted the canvases, made up with the yellow; I tuned the strings; I changed my nails for picks; I saved the books, moved the pictures.

I bought new vases and gave the garden another chance.

I threw away the calendars to live the days without seeing the weeks go by.

I removed the headphones to hear the sound of the city, and the love ones were just noise.

I forced my parents to accept my strike, I ran away.

I need to tell you what I saw down the road and how many times I got to the hospital.

The pounds I lost also sought freedom, I laugh counting the ribs.

God told the dogs to catch me so as not to finish your last pages – mutilated hands, discharge.

I warned the French that you abolished chance after the data failed.

I have to say that after the match, the first step was simple and it didn’t hurt, it hurt later, when I came back and I had to avoid our ways.

When I answered and needed I pretended.

When I heard and needed to forget.

When I spoke and the voice didn’t come out.

Needless to say, I’m empty but ready, like any calendar sheet waiting for new appointments – and the years go by.

I won. I finally won.

I won like the milk cartons at the bottom of the pantry.

I need to tell you that everything is different now and the lack of doing the same things proves to be real.

The increasingly dirty blank sheets are no longer a challenge, I always have something to say.

I never had to say so much without having to ask.

I was so talkative that the feet by the mouth stole the verses.

Therefore prose, not poemo.

Because those smiles are a flaw in fiction – that most of the pain was in the place I made it up to you – and I make up badly.

I need to say everything and I don’t want to ask anything.

I already know everything I don’t need to know, so I also write what didn’t need to be written.

I’m home, but I’m leaving.

“I’m leaving!” I say to the walls that answer me in an echo of open vowels

“Go away!”.

I will.

Written by: @naoperina

Translate by: @rascunhodraft


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