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I sit by the street 

glass of white wine

rolled cigarette 

on my lips

I pull the cigarette away

the skin gets ripped 

while the young girls

pass by

with sun on the thighs

and the floral dresses

and the bling

and dripped eyeliner

at 3 pm

oh how they walk

pushing the shoulders back

sticking the breasts out

-independent breasts-

they do what they want

and I am drinking

and smoking

some bossa nova 

is playing in my ears

and I remember

that old latin lover

that broke my heart 

and I choke him 

in cachaca 

and smile

the girls keep passing by 

riding bikes

riding scooters

riding men

riding past lives

how difficult it is

to write without pain

how difficult it is 

to write with sun

and your bank account 

with a new payment inside

how difficult it is 

to be a happy writer

and still write

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