Not-so-lonely heart and that’s a problem

This is the first time I talk about my forbidden love. I’ve never thought, not in my entire life, that I was going to fall so ardently and quickly. I think about that embrace and the way my legs seem to know the way to happiness and the way my ears guess every future sound coming and in my blurry projections of certainty there is no such thing as life without it. My love is a balcony on a busy street with as many trees as there are building construction. A bike racing with the birds up and down the concrete hills. My forbidden love is far, far away from the water. I was asked if this is what really bothers me in this whole insanity. No. My answer was no. I choose to rest my head in a New York City’s cheap silk pillowcase, so my dreams won’t mess with my waves, but no. It doesn’t bother me being far away from the water as for now. In joy, I’m jumping through the beginning of a very bloody-dry secret relationship. One that will wake me up winded and dehydrate me to hate and make me question every single geographic choice I have ever made in my life. In every corner of passion, I’m ready to meet myself. There I am dressing well and expecting to make this the brightest day of the year, hoping to find the littlest excuse to run away to pay the rent of promises to cross and occupy the loud unknown property of destiny. I’m in love, and it’s about the way everyone else seems to be feeling the same. About the interlacing of my movements with the way the flowers express hunger. The melancholic beauty in the drawings of a human-made cloudy sky, covering universes’ decision to shine. To come forward with the risk of a forbidden love, is to change the course of not only my self-analysis, but the way I face my future. I can’t yet tell the world exactly where I want to be if I can’t look in a mirror and force my lips to say that, the truth is I have no idea. If I decide to set fire to my birth roots and burn down what I built because of it, I will have to learn how to turn ashes into gold. I can barely light a match precisely. At least in this whole madness, I got to create new soundtracks for reflection. My bossa nova heart and soul knows (and tries) to convince me I wasn’t made for the sand-less, water-less love, and every time I think about the sun kissing the tip of my nose in January, I get butterflies in my stomach. When I’m licking my dreamy salty lips, I know for sure I found my place on earth– but then l set foot on JFK and all of it is gone. Suddenly, it goes live in my brain: Chamber of Reflection by Mac Demarco. It’s time for nothing. “Go girl, give us inertia!” I swear somewhere in this body we are screaming this. I’m fucked. I have lived, loved, and felt the difference between Rio de Janeiro and New York. This is a letter, statement, confession, call it what you want, announcement: I’m cheating on both of them with São Paulo and I have no idea how to stop this affair.