i maracuja, you maracuja

How High the Moon, by Ella Fitzgerald

***

Once you told me to send you my heart in a postcard. I laughed.

I don't belong to metaphores; most of the time, I have my body instead of my soul. I belong to nobody, I am from nowhere.

But, suddenly, my body recognizes my soul, I become myself, I see you. Now, listen:

This is my heart.

This is my postcard.

This is the matter that we are made of: nothing. We don't exist. Afterall, we are only a small part of a huge dream, a time full of sun and green fields and fresh water and... no time. Ironic. We have no time. We are far away. And the only real thing about us is:

I maracuja you.

Happy Birthday!