As palavras soltas de hoje contam os dias. Contam os dias com a ajuda das contas que vou desfiando. As contas daquele colar. Aquele colar que já não o é. Contam os dias desfiando contas porque os dedos das mãos já não chegam. E vou desfiando as contas daquele colar. Aquele colar que costumava brilhar e decorar o meu pescoço naqueles longos dias de Verão passados a conversar e a rir às gargalhadas. E ainda sinto o cheiro do perfume no meu lenço. O mesmo perfume a violetas, amores-perfeitos e rosas. E a abraços apertados. E a beijos roubados. E é disto que os sonhos são feitos. Pedaços de momentos e de histórias inacabadas. Algumas nunca começadas. E por isso as minhas palavras contam os dias com a ajuda das contas que vou desfiando. As contas daquele colar que decorava o meu colar naquelas noites de Inverno passadas a ver um filme qualquer e a dizer palavras sem sentido. A divagar. A sonhar. A amar. A desenhar mentalmente futuros. A escrever no ar promessas. Por isso conto as palavras e as palavras contam os dias. Desfiando as contas daquele colar. Ou de um outro qualquer. Bem, mas estas já são outras palavras soltas. Ana Reis
Today my words are counting the days. They count the days with a little help from the beads. The beads from that necklace. That necklace that used to be one but that isn't anymore. They count the days by ripping the beads of my neckless because my fingers aren't enough. And I'm ripping the beads of that neckalce. That nacklace that used to shine and decorate my neck in those long summer days spent talking and laughing with no tomorrow. And my handkerchief still have the smell of my perfume. The same perfume made of violets, sweethearts and roses. And of tigh embraces. And of stolen kisses. And this is what dreams are made of. Small pieces of unfinished moments and stories. Some of them never started. And so my words count the days with a little help from the beads. The beads of that necklace that decorated my neck on those winter nights spent together watching some movie and saying nonsense words to each other. Wandering. Dreaming. Loving. Doing mental drawings of what future will be. Writing promises in the air. That's why I count my words and my words count the days. Ripping the beads of that necklace. Or of any other. Well, but these are already another kind of words. Ana Reis
Today my words are counting the days. They count the days with a little help from the beads. The beads from that necklace. That necklace that used to be one but that isn't anymore. They count the days by ripping the beads of my neckless because my fingers aren't enough. And I'm ripping the beads of that neckalce. That nacklace that used to shine and decorate my neck in those long summer days spent talking and laughing with no tomorrow. And my handkerchief still have the smell of my perfume. The same perfume made of violets, sweethearts and roses. And of tigh embraces. And of stolen kisses. And this is what dreams are made of. Small pieces of unfinished moments and stories. Some of them never started. And so my words count the days with a little help from the beads. The beads of that necklace that decorated my neck on those winter nights spent together watching some movie and saying nonsense words to each other. Wandering. Dreaming. Loving. Doing mental drawings of what future will be. Writing promises in the air. That's why I count my words and my words count the days. Ripping the beads of that necklace. Or of any other. Well, but these are already another kind of words. Ana Reis
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