Ça se peut qu’un jour, on se parle de moins en moins, ou même plus du tout. Mais sache que si ça arrive, c’est pas ce que je voulais. En fait, je t’aurais gardé pour toute la vie, comme on l’avait dit. Ça se peut aussi que je rencontre du nouveau monde. Que j’aie l’air heureuse. Que j’aie l’air d’aller bien. Ça se peut que je déménage, que je change d’air, que j’essaie de me changer les idées et de me rafraîchir le cœur ailleurs. Tu le sais, je me cherche encore. Peut-être qu’au fond, partir loin me ferait du … Continue reading Si jamais tu sens que j’t’oublie, c’est pas vrai.

I stirred from slumber, my hands entwined with another’s, pulses syncing in a silent dance of intimacy. It was there, in the tender clasp of fingers, that I discovered love—a mosaic of fleeting moments and gentle touches. Love, I realized, is delicate and unassuming. It whispers in the shadows, lingers as an afterthought, and weaves itself into the fabric of the mundane.It’s the subtle presence in the gaps of life—the sighs and glances exchanged in the transient spaces of subway cars, where souls converge and part, perhaps never to meet again. Love is the accidental treasure trodden underfoot on your … Continue reading Fragment 55

The path of the poet …In just three lines at the end of one of the most beautiful poems of the world of the literature, Robert Frost summed up the human condition: “I shall be telling this with a sighSomewhere ages and ages hence:Two roads diverged in a wood, and I —I took the one less travelled by,and that has made all the difference.” ❤ Continue reading Robert Frost

My stories are sacred, not meant for indiscriminate ears. They are the essence of my being, a tapestry rich with the hues of joy and the shadows of sorrow. Before I part the veil to reveal my inner world, I ask myself, “Who has truly earned the privilege to witness my truth?” I count myself among the fortunate few, for in my orbit are those rare souls who can sit beside me in the stillness of my vulnerability. They hold space for my tales of shame, embracing me not just for my strengths but also for my struggles. Their presence … Continue reading My Stories

Advice for the faint of heart—read what you will, but look into my eyes to read the truth. Here’s what they will say to you: spare nothing, taste everything, touch and feel what’s real. Live as if there’s no tomorrow, speak your mind, and find the hope that springs eternal. But cast no doubt or sorrow upon these eyes of mine, for they are impenetrable—unyielding in their gaze. They have never bowed, nor will they start now. They look outward, they stare, just as yours do. These days, they rarely sleep. They fill with the same desires as yours, harvesting … Continue reading Impenetrable Eyes

May everyone find a love that warms the soul.A safe shelter to rest from this complicated world.Unexpected joys on ordinary days. Someone who waits for you. Someone who misses you. A name above all others. The most beautiful verse. The song you’ll never forget.A partner for every dance. For those who wake up, for those who dream before bedtime.A hand to hold, a shoulder to lean on, a hug to live in. A theme that carries the whole story.A certainty in every doubt.A window glowing in the dark night. A port where you can dock.Calm skies after the storm. A … Continue reading I wish you …

I am a prayer in the confession of poetry. In the folds of my soul, I am the whispered verse, the unspoken plea. I am the gray Sundays and the sunlit Mondays of renewal. Each week, I am the shifting sky, alternating between melancholy and hope. At dawn’s threshold, I wonder—will our thoughts cross paths, will our words entwine? Will you know tomorrow what I will know? Will you be tomorrow who I will become? The flow of time carries my question—will our essences remain synchronized? I wanted to believe so, and I felt it so; I asked and answered … Continue reading Prayer

Na casa de minha infância, jamais se acenderam luzes artificiais de Natal, tampouco surgiram presentes. Reflito sobre isso enquanto contemplo o céu, onde o vermelho e o laranja desvaneceram com o crepúsculo, encobrindo a luminosidade do sol. Meus olhos, repletos de contemplação, acompanham a revoada de pássaros que pinta o céu de negro, como se protegessem a casa de outrora.Sem intenção, mas sem ressentimento, mantenho viva a tradição antiga. Prefiro as luzes celestiais, pois assim meus olhos foram educados. Não sinto falta do brilho metálico das bolinhas de plástico nem do frenesi comercial do Natal. Agradeço por isso. Se as … Continue reading Na Casa da Minha Infância