The trip

Last weekend I was in your town. I actually didn't mean to go there. I was travelling with a group of friends and they decided to stop in Guarapari on the way back to Vitória. I can't say it was pleasant. None of them knew about what had happened and I couldn't bring myself to telling them... nor asking them not to make the stop. So I pretended nothing was going on.

It was hard. I keep imagining you'd show up... on a corner... on some street. I don't what I'd have done if we met. I've been feeling so bad and I don't know what would be like to feel even worse. So I guess I just closed myself up and tried not to scream. At times, I'd think of the past. There were only two occasions I was in that town with you. And we didn't go out much. You'd prefer to stay in for some reason that seemed silly at the time, and even sillier today. There's something you were not telling me, I suppose. But I guess none of this matters now.

But then I 'd picture things that never happened. I'd imagine what it 'd be like to have been part of your routine. I imagined being part of your town, of your life. We'd walk on the streets, you'd show me places that witnessed events of your past. I would get to know your family, your house, you. Then I began desperately to miss something I never had. I became even sadder than before. And so I felt sorry for myself.

It's painful to wonder about a life that I never lived. To know that choices were there, and we made the wrong ones. That time has passed by, and so have you, and I have not. To revisit places on land, and in my head, and so my heart won't go on. Then I think: do you miss it too?