segunda-feira, novembro 23, 2009

Loving you after reading Octavio Paz

What matters is that she has warm lips and a poem in each lip every time she talks, every time she looks at me, every time she moves. Sometimes the poems are about the dreams of being alive, sometimes about the rare neutral nature of existence, sometimes about the risk of walking the world, sometimes about the multiple personas that a single being can incorporate and other times about the fear of being alive and how shattered the self seems when undertaking simple tasks as a martyr in a no man’s land. I feel more whenever I listen to her, whenever I read her notes randomly left in my apartment, whenever I just look at her with a stupid smile. I feel she doesn’t understand how can someone love her.

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