By In the sheaf of sheets where you wrote, in between the lines, your fears
Our love was nested …
Drowned in tears.
No kisses.
In a chest I hid my stories, without secrets …
While the lighthouse illuminated my steps towards you.
Your hand never fit mine.
In a tyrant, cruel time …
In my sky a wounded cloud.
In your night’s other whispers and the silent moon.
(No sound on the moon)
Is there no sincere word?
That infinite distance!
Deep anguish …
Love like ours
That tastes like a lot
and it tastes like nothing.
Where do we inherit any tenderness?
I hide my sorrow:
Dripped.
I hope you cradle my soul.
I despair!
I look at a kind of mirror …
Unintentionally,
I in you become a poem,
more nothing.
– Márcia Batista Ramos
Read More From Márcia Batista Ramos
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