Impotente.

Poxa, você não me sai da cabeça. É a todo momento, uma coisa constante; assim como o murmúrio do mar num dia calmo, você é uma música de fundo que eu não parei de escutar. É o "cricrilar" dos grilos que cantam a noite inteira, são as rugas na madeira, impossíveis de tirar. Você me é inerente.
E eu sou mesmo impotente pra te tirar daí, pra te tirar de mim, pra pensar em outra coisa, em outro dia, em outro alguém.
Estou ainda parada, empacada em nós... E o porquê, eu não sei.

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