Francisca Pascoaes

 

Cemetery of the living

I loved them as if they were an urgency in me,

in them, theirs, as the world offers itself, whole, 

without "ifs", designs in a way of living

in one way or another, loving intensely.

And I loved them so much that 

they could not understand me in so much love, 

they could not reciprocate. Accompany.

I loved them, covering them, holding them in my arms,

But always leaving between them 

and me between me and them 

Our life, an existential breath and my breath. 

I allowed myself to be and expected them to be, 

they were and were and continue to be,

but wishing I wasn't also me, like that.

I loved them, I desired them, 

overvaluing what they were, 

  how they came, the existence of their egos, 

whether they were healthy or whether 

they came fractured from other loves and other wounds

 I loved them as if I unconditionally 

felt them to be my children, my brothers, 

or continuations of me because I was their continuation. 

I loved them, but I don't love them anymore, 

not in that intense, devastating, passionate, 

hurtful way.

 I loved them, period.

I am left today, still myself, 

whole and in love with moments and conversations 

and people who circulate, 

virtually and physically, through my ghosts

 animals and the dead, living and unknown, 

who engender worlds that 

I do not know and dare to imagine. Being.