travel poetry travel stories

Love letter to Lisbon

Lisboa, meu amor.

I have never finished a poem while I still laid next to someone. – one poet told me while I was laying on your docks. I couldn’t finish mine when I was yours. When you were teaching me your letters, when you embraced me so tightly that all I felt was an endless freedom. No one hugged me that strong that it finally felt fine not to breath. You taught me longing even before you welcomed me.

Ausiar – longing.

If it’s possible to long for the eyes lost into the melted sun on the miradours of Lisbon. I fell in love with those eyes faster than I fell in love with all those who were lost on me.

If it’s possible to long for Moroccan dresses that were hidding my skin from the streets of Lisbon, as if these streets did not know everything about it even before they touched it with its dust, and bid farewell with its hands.

I wanted to create the illusion in the city which had been built from illusion and what did I got? To be there even now when I’m miles away.

If it’s possible to long for a soul that is not my promised one and an ashtray above the navel – one that is still the center of my universe.

For the lips, police sirenes on the deaf streets in which I leaned my head on the palms of the city whose touch I feel on myself even now, when I walk through the streets of Kotor. Kotor saw others finger prints on my neck, but never remained silent in front of them. Kotor took his balms from the drawer of The Old Town and did everything, that it doesn’t matter how many cities I go through, I stayed untouched. Kotor is silent since I came back.

Lisbon will allow me everything:

Arrivals and departures, kisses on the balconies, rooftops and wine, fado and trams. Everything but oblivion.

You know,

Whoever you are, in Lisbon I would ask you to come to the end of the world with me, but we would be there already.

Then I would say:

Come, sleep with me on the airports.

But on which airport we should wait for happiness?

Someone is reading this, looking for some tips for Lisbon. I don’t have any. I have never had a tip for love.

Mothers, don’t let your daughters to go there, Lisbon is everything what a young girl should not know.

Daughters, don’t ask, pack your best dresses and go. You will make love to your own existence under the skies of broken hearts.

Mothers, if you let them, you will never see your daughters again.

Daugthers, you will never be the same.

When you go to Lisbon it’s hard to come back, even if another fairytale waits for you.

And now I know:

This will never be longing, this will always be saudade.


With my purest love, Jelena

only lovers left alive Cascais Cafe do Monte, a toilet

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