The adjectives come toward you,
whispering things beneath my heart:
how different we are!
you move through predicatives
and i watch myself being subject and object.
maybe it's unattractive to write like i do.
i know.
most of times i can't find words
in your language to express my sunburnt mind.
we are so different:
what has poetry given you?
consider how ridiculous love poems are
and the sameness of our idiosyncrasies.
maybe you can get a letter from your alphabet
and write something for yourself.
i feel our dictionary of emotions have a lot in common.
deep inside, in our ignored depths,
we are waiting for Sophia de Mello Breyner
or maybe Mario Quintana to set us free
from being ourselves.
here i go again:
yes,i write to someone whose eyes are mine.
no, i'm not a poet, neither you are
but we are people, feeling and drowning
exactly like Ophelia
and that pursues us.
poetry makes me half-empty
and i am glad to see the words melting
on the screen as your atoms rearrange synonyms for life.
i'm sure some day we will understand our aesthetic distance.
now i'm breaking the fourth wall and speaking directly to the audience:
i'm a bored Brazilian literature teacher eager for retirement
and more books.
my consciousness is a stream where we sink beautifully.
but
your adjectives violate my ars poetica
and here lies our singularity and perfection.
