Once not long ago,
I thought love sounded definite.
Punctual, filled with rules I created.
I invented the correct rythm for love.
It couldn't be off beat,
It couldn't sing off key.
Then I sung love imperfectly well.
I played it incorrectly balanced.
It brought me tears, heartache, frustration,
For I couldn't control love's harmonies.
What my mind didn't get
Was how beautiful love sounded,
Torn, wrong, or sometimes even muted.
Now love sounds like a Bach symphony from the best seat of a balcony.
It sounds like Bossa Nova in a hot summer night.
Sounds like the chords of a citar playing in my ear.
And sometimes, it's as simple as children's lullaby.
Imperfectly perfect.
About Me
- Bruna Palmeiro.
- She sat by the flickering light of the old television she had inherited from her great grandfather. No sounds, just images. Her eyes, wide open. She was trapped inside and could not get out.