I wonder why I write all this stuff without any hope of it being read by the only one who should. The one who seems sadly unreachable. I honestly don’t even want or expect her to do it, her absence is gifting enough.
When her immutable silence still matters more than the sweetest comment of yours. And don’t think I despise your comments, I love them, but I love her more. Always will.
When I’m cold enough to fool myself into thinking this comes from me when it actually is and has always been born through her. Should her name be the one to appear signed at the bottom of all my compositions? Would “Lídia” figure better than “Ricardo”? Well it’s shorter, lighter, definitely lovelier.
This is me saying what she won’t hear. Hurting how I hope she does not. Feeling what she never forced me to, but after all, she is the only one I found worthy of aching for.
Moments that I keep repeating, willfully, so I don’t get used to stop living like I wanted to. So I keep being the one she has awoken inside me, the best man I can be.
Memories that aren’t taunting anymore, I struggled with them at first, when I still believed that I was able to forget what meant more to me, than my vague existence itself. It can’t be done, and I’ve learned to prefer it this way. Knowing I’m capable of sustaining this longing for a love that will forever remain, within me, untouched, it amuses me too much.
When life stops being what I’m presently seeing but instead what took place in this same day, one year ago, or two, and yes, I still remember. How could I not?
When my buoyant motivation has ceased being the creation of something beautiful but rather the recalling of someone who was, and will always be, beautiful.
When the same old songs only hide what no one else notices. I listen and picture whatever I want or need to. Thoughts that, for all this time, I’ve been using to build myself in the wisest possible way.
When I quit crying for that isn’t how I should be honouring her. She was the one who teached me how to spell happiness. I can’t waste what she quietly taught me, not so heedlessly, she doesn’t deserve such a reckless pupil.
Here I am, me and you, you read and I write, you wait for what I’ll constantly give, hopefully, and I pretend this is how it’s supposed to be.
I truly don’t care if it has to be like this or not, at least for as long as I’m the one who writes, emptily, and she the one who doesn’t read, obliviously, as always.