Interrogação

Não sei se isto é amor. Procuro o teu olhar,
Se alguma dor me fere, em busca de um abrigo;
E apesar disso, crê! nunca pensei num lar
Onde fosses feliz, e eu feliz contigo.

Por ti nunca chorei nenhum ideal desfeito.
E nunca te escrevi nenhuns versos românticos.
Nem depois de acordar te procurei no leito
Como a esposa sensual do Cântico dos Cânticos.

Se é amar-te não sei. Não sei se te idealizo
A tua cor sadia, o teu sorriso terno...
Mas sinto-me sorrir de ver esse sorriso
Que me penetra bem, como este sol de Inverno.

Passo contigo a tarde e sempre sem receio
Da luz crepuscular, que enerva, que provoca.
Eu não demoro o olhar na curva do teu seio
Nem me lembrei jamais de te beijar na boca.

Eu não sei se é amor. Será talvez começo...
Eu não sei que mudança a minha alma pressente...
Amor não sei se o é, mas sei que te estremeço,
Que adoecia talvez de te saber doente.

Camilo Pessanha

Passos

Escutaste os passos
no quarto
semiescurecido
pela tua derrota?

Não eram teus,
mas do que amaste:

os passos
do que esqueces.

Luís Quintais, Arrancer penas a um canto de cisne

But if I lack love then I am nothin' at all

Let me be patient let me be kind
Make me unselfish without being blind
Though I may suffer I'll envy it not
And endure what comes
'Cause he's all that I got and tell him

Maturity

"We might define maturity as the ability to give everyone what they deserve when they deserve it, to separate the emotions that belong and should be restricted to oneself from those that should at once be expressed to their initiators rather than passed on to later and more innocent arrivals. 

We were often not mature."

Alain de Botton, Essays in Love

Mrs Cold

Okay, I get it
Okay, I see
You feel vulnerable around me
You wanted nobody around to see
You feel vulnerable around me
Hey baby
What is love?
And what's just a game
We're both playing and we can't get enough of

Though the danger was greater

"Love felt and returned, love which our bodies exact and our hearts have transfigured, love which is the most real thing that we shall ever meet, reappeared now as the world's enemy, and she must stifle it.

She sent for Miss Bartlett.

The contest lay not between love and duty. Perhaps there never is such a contest. It lay between the real and the pretended, and Lucy's first aim was to defeat herself."

A Room with a View, E. M. Forster

And I could lie, say I like it like that

Don't you know too much already?
I'll only hurt you if you let me 
Call me friend, but keep me closer 
And I'll call you when the party's over

And we are weak

Middlemarch, George Elliot

Lone Digger

The Clod and the Pebble

‘Love seeketh not itself to please,
Nor for itself hath any care,
But for another gives its ease,
And builds a Heaven in Hell’s despair.’

So sung a little Clod of Clay
Trodden with the cattle’s feet,
But a Pebble of the brook
Warbled out these meters meet:

‘Love seeketh only self to please,
To bind another to its delight,
Joys in another’s loss of ease,
And builds a Hell in Heaven’s despite.’

William Blake, Songs of Experience

Before La La Land there was Blue Valentine

And I'm dancing, again, with a little bit of yoga too. Um "jogo perigoso", como diz a C.

I was on fire

The Terraces of Meudon

The air is still: on endlessly far slopes
The city extends in blond and rosy light -
I'm drawn to sounds of mirth and chatty tropes:
A young man kisses a face sweet and white.

Looking down, beds fixed and severe I see:
A stark autumn garden round a basin lies.
Looking up: a dome, full of tombs and history,
Like an observatory above the treetops flies.

A stone flight of steps that crumbles yet survives
Makes me pause in melancholy thought -
For lifeless things may still have longer lives
Than we who've grown and fade and come to nought.

Albert Verwey, 100 Dutch-Language Poems
Translated from the Dutch by Paul Vincent and John Irons

Quiero calmar esta sed

Takeshi Kovacs and Kristin Ortega

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TBxGPhXFnjc

           "O me, O me, what frugal cheer

            My love doth feed upon!

          A touch, a ray, that is not here,

            A shadow that is gone:

         A dream of breath that might be near,

            An inly-echoed tone,

          The thought that one may think me dear,

            The place where one was known,

        

 The tremor of a banished fear,

            An ill that was not done--

          O me, O me, what frugal cheer

            My love doth feed upon!"

George Elliot

Kiss me