And screaming, filling out those teaspoon lungs.
Someone says sea air will be good for her, so they move to the coast. She grows up with sand between her toes, salt caught in eyelashes.
She outgrows seasonal kiosks, cliff tops and crags.
The city is alive. A pulsing, grasping thing she likes only at night.
Flatshares with strangers and pão de queijo, shift work.
She falls in love, they fall out of love, she’s left with her love, distraught.
Sunday morning and the slow train home.
Low tide on the bay; shoes kicked off, she walks into the sea.
Blue.
Véro Falco 