saudade of esquilozinho
i used to write letters to you in the notebook i bought only for you. i never sent them — not because they weren’t meant for you, but because i dreamed that maybe one day we would read them together, side by side, somewhere soft and silent. maybe with a shared cookie on a bus trip, and my bloody valentine playing in our ears. but at some point, i had to burn them all. i couldn't keep the words i gave you, not without your permission — or your perception.
but still, i miss everything about you. literally everything.
i told you i would never forget you, and i meant it.
i told you i was in love — that was real, too.
i can't count the times you came rushing back from the smallest things: the lyrics of songs you sent, the ones you thoughtfully related to us, the language you spoke when you tried to explain your feelings — it made me want to learn it, just to understand you and the world around you more deeply. a passing thought that lights up my reality, breaking through space and time, because of the way you rooted yourself in my heart.
even though you came to me through an abstract reality, you still found me. you found me in an enchanted forest full of glowing mushrooms, where i was the only strawberry — the one that had already gone rotten. how could i forget the one who found me at least once?
you left an enormous impact just by letting me see a glimpse of you — even the sides of you i couldn’t accept.
when we met in music, each of those moments stayed with me, grew within me, and got stronger each day and night. they inspired me. your memory turned into shadows that dissolved into every silhouette i see.
i’ve read plenty of books, but if i had to choose just one to carry for the rest of my life, i would still choose you — as the book i return to, again and again.
still by the seaside, trying to reach the ocean, even just a little.
obrigada.
jue
