In the first poem I wrote after you left, I killed you.
My hand met the back of your neck
and led you to water, where I held your hair—
under— one last time.
But this is the poem I’ve kept—
it’s years ago and we’re in bed.
Night slips into morning and I realize
I’ve woken up early again to watch you dress,
to remember you,
even though you’re right there, next to me.
" And certainties are the things that most harden the human soul. Certainties trap our souls, they leave us without the desire to try different things, without access to newness. To make mistakes is to be free, to open the gamut of possibilities. When we give up certainties we liberate our being so that it may reinvent itself"
- Cao Guimarães
Theme by Monique Tendencia