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”.
