(Portuguese): The feeling of longing for something or someone that you love and which is lost.
A darkness pierces the light, igniting long cold embers to a bleak resonance. I can still see her through the smoke of the lingering doubts and regret, blinded by what I imagine, choked by longings that may never be satisfied. I can hear laughter through the walls, wishing I were him and her, I know it’s a her at the other end of the phone call: I wish she was her. Her reflections shine off the surfaces where she paints her words with energy, a warmth I miss. Holding myself, I close my eyes and wish she was here with me, that she would even pretend that I still mattered. Why is it so difficult to stop dreaming? Grasping the fading flowers of memory that are now thorns tightly, mesmerized by my own dripping blood and numbed by the pain, I wait, still, watching this macabre canvas take shape. Any shape will do, however twisted, to remind me that I once felt with my very life force, that once I was so alive. One day I will forget her, and this cloying sentimentality may disappear from my words, or words disappear altogether. I might have no more use for them: a heart was broken without trying too hard, and even that mends. How many times have I said goodbye? How many more times will I have to say it?