O Lado B do A

E o que eu faço com a falta que a sua falta faz? Eu grito em acordes menores o refrão da musica que casualmente encontrei traduzindo o que na época não podia traduzir. E repito, incansavelmente, o trecho que diz que não quero fechar os olhos com medo de sentir demais a sua falta. Enquanto isso, repriso a cena na minha mente: a música ecoando, você nos meus braços, nas escadas de um lugar frio e mal iluminado, onde ninguém nos vê e nós nos sentimos. As batidas dos nossos corações se alinham. O choro ameaça vir, mas para na garganta. Toda a emoção daquele instante transborda pelos meus dedos e escorre pelas cordas do violão. Cada acorde é um mantra que repito na esperança de te esquecer. Mas o choro vem. A cena se repete. Dessa vez, sem você.

“When I utter those words, 'I don't know,' it dances on the air, far more complex than it seems. There was a time I walked in certainty, where life's path felt settled and assured. I believed in the existence of others along this journey, yet never took the time to bridge our worlds, to weave our stories together.  When I whisper my uncertainty, it stems from a place I never dreamed existed—the depths of my heart, where feelings intertwine like vines, ensnaring me between two souls. I never imagined how effortlessly I could be swept away by her, caught in the thorns of love.  If only the choice were so clear-cut.  You think I should leap fearlessly or relinquish you to the winds of fate, but I've wrestled with this battle countless times—in the silent corridors of my mind, in the tender chambers of my heart.  At times, it feels right, an embrace of possibilities, yet in the blink of an eye, the clarity fades into shadows again. And oh, how piercing it is to listen t...

To write is often to reopen wounds, to face the ache of memory and feel again what once whispered in the dark. Perhaps that’s why some poets turned to opium: to numb the pain just enough to hear the truth more clearly. They didn’t run from feeling; they distilled it, drugged just enough to choose the right words, turning torment into beauty, sorrow into verse. Art, after all, demands a toll. And memory never comes without its ghosts. Now, as I write my own book, I’ve chosen to face the past with my eyes closed — not to escape, but to relive. Not with opium, but with you .  You are the presence I breathe in.  And in every memory I revisit, it’s your shadow I find shaping the story.  You are the pulse behind every page.

...between the boy who had always been there, warm and familiar, and me, a sudden spark in a dim corridor. Her heart, a compass constantly spinning, never quite pointed home. And that was enough to begin something we never quite finished. It wasn’t love. Not at first. It was a spark—the kind that catches if the wind’s just right. We told ourselves it was innocent. It wasn’t. The truth was, we both wanted to be seen. To be chosen. To be the reason someone turned around. She drifted between us like someone chasing her own reflection in a broken mirror—wanting him, wanting me, wanting no one at all. And when the wanting dried up, she stood in the stillness, trying to remember who she was before she bent herself to fit into someone else’s hands. Lisbon was where it all came undone. Not loudly. Quietly. The kind of unravelling that feels like a confession. The truth, the ache, the thing neither of us could name. Her voice was a murmur against the chill air as she sat near the river, and her...

I came to the hills where poets came to die, not of wound nor illness, but of truth,  to lay their sorrow down  in the hush between stone and sky. Here, the earth remembers  what the heart is made to forget. So I have come too,  with your name like ash in my mouth. The wind in your voice,  the warmth of a false dawn—  I mistook it all for love. You wore your kindness well,  but it fit too perfectly,  like a borrowed coat. I never saw the seams. It opened its hand,  and there were your lies,  lined up like smooth stones  pulled from a black river. And I— I was the last to know I was drowning. Not from the world,  but from the cathedral of my mind. Your place is sealed,  a crypt beneath the heather. The poets here  died for beauty, or for truth. You? You simply faded,  like fog from a mirror. No carved name. Only silence, and the clean forgetting. You do not sleep in my memory— you are exiled from it...

There is a storm in my soul. You saw it once—marvelled at it, maybe even feared it. But you never understood it. You tried to tame it, contain it in promises too fragile for my thunder. Now that storm is mine again. No longer stirring for you. It dances to my own rhythm now, one you can’t follow. It crackles with the fire of everything I reclaimed. I am the electric silence before the lightning. The pulse before the quake. Majestic, yes—but no longer yours to witness. This storm doesn’t break me. It makes me.

I paused. The kind of pause where everything inside you screams, but the outside stays still.  Silent. Numb.  I sat in that silence, heavy and hollow.  I’m empty. I feel sick—like something inside me rotted and leaked into my skin.  I feel dirty in a way that no amount of scrubbing will fix. And my friends—they look at me like I’m broken. They’re right. But none of this started with me. This started with you.  Your emptiness. Your sickness. Your dirt. You handed it to me, gift-wrapped in charm and fake promises. All this fucking time, it was your damage, damaging me. My vulnerability versus your game. You lied. You used me to save something you had. You told me you didn’t deserve my heart, and God, you were telling the truth for once. I should’ve listened. But love makes you deaf. And I kept loving you. I over-gave myself to you, and maybe that’s my curse. But yours? Yours is never being able to forgive yourself for what you did. You're everything I never want t...