~ hologram

you hologramed
into my bedroom last night,
not the version they see,
but the one I met
in the quiet
between performances.

the no-performance you.
the one who didn’t need
an audience
to be real.

my brain short-circuited
at the sight.
grief glitching into desire.
fury looping into longing.
because I’ve been angry.
at the gods,
at myself,
but mostly
at you.
at the cowardice.
yours.
my own.

not just the cowardice
to surrender,
but to escape.

you called it clean.
you called it kind.
but your silence bled so loud
I tasted the iron
on my own tongue.

you said,
we both know what this is.
we do.
not in the beginning.
but somewhere along
the slow descent,
when we crossed a line
we pretended not to see.

you never named it.
neither did I.
not in my writing,
not in whispers,
not even in the bathwater
where my thoughts go to drown.

because naming it
would mean letting it live.
and if it lives,
what am I supposed to do
with some thing
that can’t?

but not naming it
doesn’t make it vanish.
it just carves itself
into my ribs
without consent.

and still,
I hate myself.
for feeling it.
for feeding it.
and I hate you
so much more
for knowing
and choosing
not to.

and if you ever want to
shatter what’s left,
just say
you’ll always wonder.
because I do.
and I wander
with it.

jericoacoara, brasil

i used to think paradise was loud.
grand.
someplace with fireworks or a sign that said you’ve arrived.
but here
paradise whispers.
it hums like wind over dunes and the hush of tides kissing mangroves.

it starts slow:
bare feet on red-dust roads,
a lime cut open for caipirinha,
salt tangled in your hair
before you’ve even unpacked.

pedra furada stands like a portal
not just a rock, but a wound the sea never stopped carving.
you walk there at low tide,
thinking of all the things erosion teaches us about time,
and how light, at the right angle, makes absence look sacred.

at sunset, the many locals climb the dune like pilgrims.
all of us waiting,
as if watching the sun slip beneath the ocean
might give us permission to let go of something, too.
and when it disappears, we clap.
not for the sun, but for ourselves.
for choosing this place. for arriving.

in lagoa do paraíso,
you swing in a hammock half-submerged,
water licking your skin like a secret.
you forget your name for a while.
only remember the temperature of turquoise
and the ache of muscles finally unclenched.

there’s a bent tree they call preguiça: lazy.
but it’s not lazy. it’s free.
it grew toward the wind and stayed there.

god, maybe that’s what we’re doing too.

capoeira beats call you to the beach at dusk,
bodies moving like poetry before it’s written.
then forró after dark,
barefoot spins under fairy lights,
strangers holding each other like old friends
or future stories.

in the mangroves of guriú,
you glide silently between roots that braid water to earth.
they say seahorses live here, invisible to the rushed eye.
maybe you do too,
the version of you that still believes in quiet magic.

there’s a night when the stars are too many to name.
you lie on wet sand,
and the sky reflects itself around you
like the universe is closing in
just to hear your breath.
and maybe it does.
you make a wish on a bird instead of a star.
you don’t know why,
you just do.

and out of nowhere,
someone hands you a board.
you fly down a dune laughing.
you dance.
you say nothing for hours.
you say everything with a glance.
you remember who you are
before the rush and alarms and musts.

you begin to wonder:
what if the way out wasn’t loud at all?
what if escape looked like sunburned shoulders,
wind chapped lips,
and the sweet, slow ache of coming home to yourself?

so tell me,
how’s the escape plan coming along?
because this map drawn in sand and silence?
it looks a lot like freedom.

m.