Português
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I’m starting to see how the other
isn’t me. And even more to understand
how the other keeps excesses
of myself.
My effort to go beyond the image
traverses what escapes me when
printing your light.
Residue of voices I still listen
despite it being left somewhere
outside the framed photo.
From this noise, echo of words
and pauses that repeat ad infinitum.
Amidst hate and love, I am
what I managed to do
with my missed encounters
and asymmetric waves.
A struggle to stay still
feeling the gaze
collapse.
