Terminal Three

Davi

I died yesterday, not from death or plague, I died yesterday from longing. And she, on that cold night in Guarulhos. She who once had introduced me to crows, “never more”. Morbid, with that artificial sun (nothing was more embarrassing than the imitation light from the lamps). Morbid and warm, since the summer was at its highest point… She was evacuating her sadness all around, almost drowning every single soul in that airport.

—Touch my face, stop crying, lift your head and look at me. Memorize every dysfunction of my body, every curve, every thing that makes me different from another piece of meat, memorize my gaze, memorize my eyelashes. See the color of my eyes, so you can remember when you want to. Touch my face, feel the sensation, touch my hair, smell it. Forget the man walking by with his suitcase going over the top of my foot, forget the smell of cheese bread coming from below, forget the color of the sign at terminal three. But remember me, the color of my skin, my hair. I know you won't text me; I know you - you'll stay cold and morbid until you forget.

“Morbid with a desolate look”... Your gaze was so deep that it would kill anyone with its sadness. Sadness that evacuated, defiled, drowned. I take her hand, cold, morbid, like her. I grab her waist, full of life, lust, just like her. And I dance, intertwined, the waltz in my head. With each step, I turn her, with each turn, I turn her, does she turn me? We dance the waltz to the sound of farewells, people talking and obsessive people judging. 

When was my flight again? Is there even a flight? Or is it an excuse to separate us? Oh, holy! They hate happy people. I dance the waltz in front of terminal three, and she's confused, she's so confused, what was my name? I only know her name. She's confused, but she's not morbid anymore; the water that used to come out of her eyes now comes out of everywhere. She's confused and sweaty. I dance the waltz to the smell of her hair and cheese bread. And when the waltz slows down due to fatigue on both sides, the silence that falls between us is a kind of promise that, if broken, could result in a death sentence. “Shhh,” she says, and I understand very well. “I love you,” she whispers, and I repeat “I love you,” with her in my arms. A long goodbye, a long return. I no longer danced the waltz in front of terminal three, I cried to the sound of Caetano on the plane, I cried for my story, I cried naked and raw. And sitting, unable to get up, when midnight struck - her favorite time of the day. I got up and danced the waltz alone on the plane, while she danced the waltz alone in front of terminal three.