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