I knew as a passing gaze, those Portugal leaves. To imagine while it aches, it must be beautiful.
On a borrowed legacy, rendering life incompletely.
Seeking what avails, destitute of completion—memories leaning into dusk, and dusty oceans. I was once seven, imperfect, dreaming as minutes were excruciating. A soft chase after hope.
All this time with lying, acting, if to sing silence, such imbalanced comforts.
To speak about freefalling, disputing liberty, sullen completion, melancholic sweetness—in having a vision, sewn to destiny, with fate running.
This must be a confession. Each line roaring in caves.
Watching as one writhes. Trying to play make-believe. To imagine arms reaching.
And over yonder, a universe, cursed to have been blessed.
Asking to go home. Wondering how we lost existence. Those spaces we’ve never encountered, so afar, waiting to meet each other.
It was nice meeting you. It was sudden hell. The years have prevented life.
