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Image Source, Decry.Yae (Unsplash)

She was right, you do resemble the moon.

A vision. Dim light

The opening of a mouth, a door, a soul

I reach my fingers through your corridors

“Am I interrupting?”

It’s a delicate space, pink rooms filled with glass

The tip of my toes trying hard not to touch them

I was never one to make love poems, anyways.

But I do understand doors, I promise

The opening of hands

The interruption of my breath

“You were saying…?”

It’s the end of scene twenty four

“Can I come in?”

The opening of a window, a road, my legs

I shouldn’t ramble, I feel like I am

What I mean is

I want to plant gardenias in your hair and fill your edges with my scent

And it will be quiet and soft and you will barely feel it

Let’s think about this rationaly:

It couldn’t be peonies, you know?

They would be too loud, too bright

I’m picky when it comes to flowers and I guess I know you

Within me, in me

It’s a tender space, these walls, my throat

Light breeze opening the curtains

Writing poems without rage

It’s cold in here but I made room for you

Have you?

Pink rooms filled with flowers

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What’s on your mind?

Open the window, Heathcliff.

by Lavínia Vianini

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Lavínia is a 25 year-old poet, translator and teacher. With a Bachelor's degree in English/Portuguese, her Academic research focused on poetry written by women, which later allowed her to be offered a scholarship in Comparative Literature.

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