Por Stéfanie Sande

You flew so high at an early age

you spend your days performing

on the other side

you are way beyond my reach

the wings I have are metaphorical

in truth they are only these pages

words can not fly but they travel

so they say

who knows

 

It’s pathetic

I’m fully aware

but reader

if you can

please pass this note

to the boy in black

he says it’s lonely at the top

I’m still climbing and I know

to get this high It has to be you

flying alone

 

but let’s get to the point

 

my note

 

maybe It’s best if I draw a picture

so here it goes

 

It’s almost two A.M. and I’m home alone

I live in a winter city now but it’s not cold

Vita sleeps behind my computer screen

I can see her tail and her head on Mrs. Dalloway

[another book I’m unashamed I didn’t read]

rain was pouring yesterday but not today

pretend it is cause we’re romantics on the inside

there’s no one else here but the two of us

and by us I mean Vita and me

she’s a little cat I found on the street

I haven’t seen my family in months

[not even on christmas new year’s or my birthday]

I’m wearing a torn oversized t-shirt and my hair pulled back

I wish I could say I look good but just like the rain we’ll have to pretend

I also need writing gloves cause I’ve injured my hand writing too much

I’m the cliché writer of my dreams except not rich not famous not poor

I’m not dying of tuberculosis and I’m not twenty-one anymore

though I did get that damn virus and so far haven’t died in this pandemic

It’s kind of funny how the writing life can be so pathetic

at the same time it’s the only thing that really matters

anyway

two notebooks are filled with poems and notes of the past few days

I confess they also have an embarrassing record of my weight

anyway

I’m trying to organize my scattered letters

I know we have different alphabets but not to worry this will translate

this note is getting a bit long because I need something to forget

just thirty minutes ago I was about to go batshit crazy mad

I wanted to give up

as if I could

as if I haven’t tried

luckly I didn’t drink wine

I can not throw up on my arm yet another time

so let me finish this long excuse of a letter

hoping things will get better and knowing they won’t

It’s a spiral it comes back and then goes on

we get dizzy sometimes and that’s how it is

and now a quote from a book just occured to me

It says once you get into the desert there’s no going back

endlessly wandering we are dreaming in the sand

there really is no reason for loving is there? but we do

so I won’t explain this note to anybody but you

maktub

 

well, reader

if you’re still here

please do not forget

if you can then please

pass this note to the boy in black

I think he writes just as much as I do

I hope someday he reads this and feels

not quite so alone

just as I feel

when I listen to his songs

 

 

Stéfanie Sande é escritora e doutoranda em escrita criativa na PUCRS, autora dos romances “O último verso” e “Virgínia”.

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