I have always known that I would never get used to the absence
That that void I feel on the pit of my stomach would never be healed as time pass
I have learned to pretend so as to
My peers believe that everything is fine
At night, listening to an owl hooting near to my bedroom’s window,
I miss you more than ever
I open my cellphone to see your pictures once again
I try to recall the sound of your laugh, and I succeed
I write bad poems all the time
I read them aloud, hoping that you are able to listen to them wherever you are
[Whatever you are]
In my mind, I hear you voice saying that they’re beautiful
Eles são lindos
I often lie to myself
You had never had patience to my writings
Are you sleeping?
Can you hear my voice?
Are you dust?
Are you there, out in the universe?
If you are, dinda, do you know I miss you constantly?
Do you know that this ache—this damn ache that I’ve felt since January—
Has never gone away?
Narah Soares was born in Petrolina, Brazil, in 1996. She graduated in Law in 2019. She’d love to dedicate this poem to the people who died from COVID. Dinda means godmother in Portuguese, and hers died from COVID. That’s the reason she wrote this poem.
Litehouse 