ela chegou de um jeito meio despretencioso... pelo menos pra mim... era a amiga dos amigos que eu sempre soube quem era e sempre pensava "quem trouxe ela, Senhor?!" kkkkk ela causa!
ela fechou comigo e foi minha parceira pra explorar os picos incríveis desse lugar e dedicar um tempo pra cuidar do corpo e da mente! 🍃🍀💚
Já te amo, te odeio e te carrego em meu coração!
Sucesso na nova jornada! Cai pra dentro, pé na porta! Voa gaivota!! Pq tu é gaivota manerona! 🏝
(i) If you give out all the love that you have, would you call yourself empty?
(ii) If you were to throw something out from the roof of your house, what would you throw?
(iii) It rained today. I didn’t leave my house.
(iv) If I were to call you by my name, would you answer? (v) I have too much to say, too many words within me. I spell them out in my dreams. I say everything I want to say to you in my dreams. Somedays, waking up is too much effort.
(vi) I don’t know what our souls are made of, but mine feels at home with yours.
(vii) maybe the reason i can’t really go out in the rain is because it reminds me of you. and I miss you.
in all the rains you aren’t here.
(viii) I’m learning how to drown.
(ix) some days, breathing is suffocating.
I don’t chase my breath anymore. On most days, it chases me.
(x) I don’t know what name to call you with. I keep trying to forget yours, it keeps coming back to me.
(xi) some days, I miss you even when you’re here.
(xii) I don’t know what to call this.
_I drown in paper boats.
National Poetry Writing Month, Day 15.
Here and There
Tyrell is an aspiring artist who lives in New Orleans. He works at the Ace Hotel on the front desk and the front entrance hailing cabs for guests and opening doors for Uber and Lyft rides. When he’s off duty we chat in the sunshine and find out we both have a good memory for faces but rarely remember names and talk about how names are just a handle given to you by somebody else that you then have to figure out how to make fit your face even when at times they don’t feel anything like you.
On the last day he gives me one of the sketches he doodles on the hotel stationary with the ballpoint pen he always has in one hand and tells me he’s also going to run away soon just for a little while.
Back in Brooklyn I’m drinking with a professional artist in an upscale neighbourhood bar where the light and voices seem harsher and brighter than in Louisiana
I pretend not to know why the conversation feels so familiar and that Ive never heard the same words coming out of my mouth about why I’m not getting paid more for my work and how saturated and difficult the market is and I wish I’d remembered to tell Doug that there are still some differences between here and there and think about Tyrell and the sketch he gave me and remember I’m going home tomorrow and suddenly feel really tired.