Today I wish you:

That when you go to sleep you feel my presence nearby and say my name as if you were invoking Gabriel, and thus when you dream that you do it with all the colours that you saw me in. 

That when you are crossing avenues, that you only know by pubs, that you believe you see me in the reflection of a bookshop that has been dead longer than you, me and everyone. And that your cold autumn fingers reach out to touch what the wind already blew away.

That when you’re among friends and the beer is colder than your chest without your heart, and while everyone talks, but you remain silent, that you think you hear someone call out my name and from there, your eyes, which are the darkness of a supernova, won’t rest until they never find me. 

That I hope that you are in the trembling of the cell in which you write and delete, write and delete, write and delete, the number that you erased from your life. But that’s still tattooed between the fingerprints of all your no for me, and that when you send your apologies that my silence will be deafening.

That I want you to know that in my exhaustion and pain there is more affection than I ever said when your body was so close that it was a sin to not kiss it (Father I have sinned).

That when all the wishes have been spent, the candles have been blown, the stars have gone out, you take out the Brazilian flag lighter and with closed eyes, you wish that on this night you aren’t the only one with insomnia.

TA.