Alma Novaes

 

Rehearsal for despair. Root love. 

Accent Ticket Number 1. As an original. 

Homeland: Yours

Introduction

He had been born of almost nothing, according to atrophied. I hadn't noticed. Who knows, the thousandth might be more faithful to the portrait of his birth. Hour. Space. And he brought a smile planted in the middle of his face, where he offered two speckled apples in a closer look. He promised an unfulfilled kiss. Earthly missions made him sleepy. Someone had heard it said that when you fall asleep in love, it's good to sign. Maybe so. It had a sign. Of the future tense. He had been born with a later date, but out of date. He had never soured a relationship to the point that he had exhausted his smiles or the notion of shared feeling. Develop engagement. Time and space have taught me to look without needing, to want without having, to love without touching. And I unlearned everything. Everything, my love. I'm somewhere between the door of a druid altar and the certainty that there are no knees to run on. I've walked past you, countless times, some Realizing that you were a full space, others don't even see you. My dead walked with me and whispered to me alertly, attentive to my shipwrecked misfortunes. Did you know that he would surrender to your embrace? That you would be happy for a few seconds? That I would lose you and that day the world would be too dark a place to stay? You gave me flowers, kisses, chocolates and poetry. You gave it to me. I didn't know what to do with so much love. I never get used to the presents. I live with one leg in the past and the other in the future. A future that, we now know, will not happen. Let me tell you, I still can, what you've given me. What I grew. Today it couldn't be any other way. You didn't allow it. An add-on for you. I don't have myself either. 

Implication

You woke up in me, in that warm, sweet breath of someone who never slept. You kissed a warm belly of shelter and tattooed by the love you offered me every second. Voluptuousness was born in our fingers and mouth. And our tiredness was rhythmic. You were the landscape where I rested from my moods. And I tried to follow the poetry of the days, in the immense distance. Gal sang that distance doesn't exist. Lie. It hurt to the mileage between us. Hurt. Hurts. Now someone in the night comes to whisper to you that love doesn't exist. But here I am. Here, lying in the memories of you, of your embrace, of your warmth and protection. Of your smell. From your voice that still whispers ballads to calm my fears. A territory called love. And today, the second ones, I decorate them with your kisses that came wet to kiss my eyes and face, mouth and blood. And I bleed another moment when I remember your hair resting on my hands, my wild soul snatching moans from you, moaning on the back of longing. I agonize. Peace was a temple built on the wind and the promises of words. Brittle cements. Constructions of ideas. Your hand smoothed mine, your restlessness was my restlessness. I was worried. Love lay in our midst and ritualized forces and abysses. To be yours was fulfillment. Drunkenness. A state that is more than civil. If you look back, shaking the neck of your heart, you will see that Tua was more than a land planted by the river: YOURS, YOURS, YOURS. I am still more than this land, I am still more than a blessed mountain, yours. And you let me be yours, from a possession without possession, in a surrender without laws or limits. And tomorrow was a time that was not talked about. - No, don't say words. That they boycott our desire to walk on the same beach. Don't germinate lies. Don't say anything. The gestures that were felt in your kiss were enough to anticipate the black and cold morning. Of your absence in a permanent state. 

Inconclusive conclusion

It's been many days, I don't even know if it's been centuries. My intuition had faded as the years went by. You wrote letters without a sender. I say, forwarded love. You should have written: heartbreak. Rage, anguish. Those names matched my black dress, with my opaque silks. With my bottomless eyes. Dry. Voids and contours of time. Of our time. I discredit love. I stopped believing in men.

And if I am dead, my love, you must know: Here, in me, love is latent, only yours. I believe in eternity. I'll know how to wait for you. 'Cause you take me back to the time when I loved you, as soon as I met you - I've always entered you, barefoot, like at home, isn't that what my love has shown you? I'll show it again with these words.