Palavras ao vento – Gal Costa

A nearly empty bottle of wine sat in the corner of Billie's bedroom floor, next to it were two empty glasses and an ashtray with some cold cigarette butts. You two went to sleep late last night.

Billie turns over in bed, squinting against the light coming from the balcony. She slides her eyes over to the nightstand where the digital clock sits, grunts when she sees she slept until 11 am.

She looks at her silhouette leaning against the balcony and looking out at the trees. The place where Billie lived was well-wooded and cool, she chose it carefully.

Billie continued to look at you, admiring everything about you. To her, every inch of you was poetry. And it's true that Billie wasn't used to any of this, that opening her eyes and having someone in her room waiting for her to wake up was different, but she could no longer deny how much she enjoyed it.

You agreed not to rush things. Everything in its own time. However, Billie no longer knew what was rushing and what was demonstrating, sometimes she feared she was suffocating you.

She didn't want to rush anything, or scare you and hear you say they should stop seeing each other. Billie wasn't sure she knew how to live the days without you anymore.

She sits on the bed, looking at your pair of earrings and rings on her dresser, your clothes folded and your shoes carefully placed away from where either of you could trip.

She sighs, stands up after putting on her shorts and walks over to you. You were so beautiful it made her want to cry. How did she get so lucky?

What are you doing there? You could have woken me up earlier. Billie says to you and touches your waist, over the shirt you're wearing. Your bare feet make a soft sound on the wooden balcony.