We came together a long time ago,
but I can still smell coffee in the air,
hear your chanting laugh,
feel your burning eyes looking a me.
We were there from the start but many joined us,
performing their poems,
sunset behind their back,
standing in the middle of a stairway.
We wrote those words,
in the intimacy of our bedrooms,
at the mercy of the wind in parks,
by the sea hypnotized by rolling waves.
We gave ourselves to the words,
asking nothing in return,
but one perfect transcending verse,
that would change everything.
We devoted our nights to our muses,
our pencils loving them,
bringing them to life,
or burying them alive.
We fought our darkest demons,
danced with the devil,
but always went to bed alone,
writing not to get lost.
We walked side by side,
not necessarily knowing each other,
but bound by the unspoken promesse,
never to judge or reject.
We butchered poetry more than once,
tried too hard or too little,
so sure about who we were,
so desperate to be someone.
We grew older and life pulled us apart,
but we are the Essex writers circle,
and we have a book motherfuckers.
Thank you Ossídio Gaspar.