CAPTAINS WITH ACHING HEELS
Too many days in bed lead to too
many days trying to make up all the time wasted in bed rewatching my favourite
show. What was supposed to be a quiet getaway from my own blues became a week
of never-ending ankle blisters caused by my brand-new shiny shoes. We’ve been walking
up and down searching for the right books, the right steak tartare, the right
coffee, the right new fragrance, the right brand new something that would make
me forget about my aching heels and the two weeks old garbage bag sitting on
the corner of my room. When I get back home, I will have to face it. And it is terrifying
because no matter what futile shiny new thing I bring home with me the rot will
always smell. And so, I hate facing my bedroom from the outside view, I hate getting
up, looking down to my toes, and observing the wires, and dust, and empty water
bottles hanging around. The noise from the outside. the sun. the birds. The genuine
laughs that come from the kitchen. The smell of almost burnt teacups patiently waiting
to not be forgotten and swallowed by moss. I need to get out of here. I need to
buy a plane ticket, yes, that can help. But I have a weird already existing life
on the other side of the world that goes on without me— I do not want to face
its face. It would be the death of everything I am trying to build away from you.
Yes! You! You! You! The remittent who never reads, and the one I never send
the fifteen or more letters I wrote. If I saw you, nothing else would matter. I
can’t buy the ticket. I need to lose my plane ticket, and I need to lose you. So,
I will do a brand-new tattoo, and I will buy a new perfume you haven’t smell,
and I will buy new books and become a whole new person inside the very same
trenches— you will never hear from me again. I swear. I won’t spend any other
day rotting or waiting or avoiding truths. My truth is that I loved you from
winter to winter, possibly (I cannot speak for who I will be in the future, and
it is still autumn, I still love you). You loved me for, I speculate a whole
simmering hot spring. And I should’ve known, because spring Is my eternal ghost,
and it follows me around like a dark horse.
the world and stay. Be in a single place for half of a decade, maybe. I need to get out of this bed, and I will buy a book or two and I will sit in silence in the bookstore, and I will buy a horrible book to laugh at with my friends. And I will hug them, and the smell of vogue will glue us together. One of my friends met me on Monday, and I met Manu on Friday— a full circle. I got a new tattoo on Wednesday, and I had class on Tuesday. I sucked the life out of my debit card, but it did help, somehow. Now whenever I look down there are fresh ink scars, and it smells like Santalum, and I hugged my beautiful girl once more. And it is beautiful, and the windows must stay open. The telephone must stay hidden. The mirrors mut be veiled. And we must, we must, we must, we must stay together. And we will drink lattes and read our favourite newspaper together, and we will meet again on the beach, and we will laugh about it all and make poetry out of the pictures on your cigarette pack— the absence of the sex in it. You will flip one and call it your luck. Well, you are my lucky one! And I wish to melt into every second we can spend together. Smelling the very same and laughing of the 19th century philosophers we hate. Get me out of here!!! Let me hear your beautiful, quiet stories, and let me be the one who observes art for once— that is what I love the most about you. You are the true core of philosophy, and you are the true admirer— how is it? Is it beautiful? Do you love tasting every little thing you can grab and love and feel and know? You are so cool, I bet you don’t even notice. And it is because of moments like this that life is worth living. The comfortable silence between conversations is beautiful, don’t you think? And, when I got home, I organized my wardrobe, took a long nap and I swore I was cured. But I was not. And that fact was rubbed on my face like a punishment— you are not a captain of any sort. You have no clue at all, of well, anything. You’re not a captain. You are just a girl. The rest of the day was a blank page on my head. The words kept spinning around until the morning birds sang to me in Latin.
So, to never go back at all to my
very same already existing fate I chose to get up and put on a pretty outfit I’ve
been thinking about for the whole week. Running to the train station is all
that really makes my blood run wild— she was standing there, all pretty and
dolled up in her shiny black shoes. She has a different perfume, but memories do
not really come from smells, they come from laughs and books, and breakfast
sandwiches that help you forget about the simmering cup of tea in front of us.
Memories are not woven in bed; they are born in the arms of the most delicate
soul you could ever meet. And hey, that is something worth getting up for.
Teacups stained with two different lipsticks, a porcelain swan to call my own, a few many books, a plan to run away from something no one is quite sure of what it is yet. And the most important thing; you! Yes, you. Nothing was ever the same after you— and that is beautiful, because every time the world is too heavy there you are, at that very same train station, in your pretty clothes and softspoken voice. We never get boring, and bookstores never get old— you are the only one that can take my hand and drag me around the town without making my brain boil. Distance makes it all special, and you know damn well about that. You know about it all. We go home, and you smell all my perfumes as you make funny faces. We fill our bodies with tea. We hug tightly and never really go away. And nobody needs to be a captain in between your arms— we can be just girls after all… listening to Billie Holiday and laugh about Homer, and we can do it all over and over and over again because that is the best part about life— it is still very much happening, and no stars will die in front of our eyes again. There’s no need for unnecessary strength and there are no tears good enough to say goodbye. We are pretty much eternal, and stupidly daydreaming about each other all the time, and we drink the same cups of tea, and I kept on reading about the radio tower for hours, and now I wonder how lucky someone needs to be to know you are such an amazing writer! I love you. And there is no need for anything else— I can just walk in and out of my silence in peace knowing you chose the tea I am drinking. And it is okay to not really know where you are heading (for now). You just need to know that it will still rise and fall into the night— everything will. And hope is a daughter we hold in our arms like nothing else really matters. Hope. That is what I need— hope. Not a ship to guide, or another sea to conquer— all we really need to stay alive is the hope of seeing something beautiful in a pair of kind eyes again. Eyes like yours, and I will never shut up about them, or about their curiosity— we can find hope in human skin, and maybe that was all I truly needed— ankle blisters, a few new books, a bit of tea, a lot of you. The smell of the city life and the smell of the old and clustered books. All those days running in circles just to get back into the arms of a girl that feel like home once wrapped around me.
.jpg)
.jpeg)
Comentários
Postar um comentário