Carla Sofia / @carlapipiabr / an old Dominican soul who loves photography, journaling, gardening, tattooing, writing and basically all forms of self expression. She writes poetry to feel and be felt because ultimately that is what we’re all looking for. You can find what she’s up to on her Instagram account @carlasofia___
THE GHOST YOU LEFT BEHIND
the ghost you left behind still calls me
it sits on your side of the bed at night
and crawls up next to me
when I can’t fall asleep
the ghost you left behind
writes me letters in the middle of july
telling me how much you wish I could be next to you,
it opens the door to my bathroom late at night
and brings me memories of us together
the ghost you left behind
it tells me I was too afraid
of you of us of being alone
it reminds me of all the months I felt like I was choking to death.
the ghost you left behind sits on your charcoal chair,
the one with the leather arm rests,
and stares me down every time I get home late
it asks me where I was
who I was with
if the wine I had was the one you used to like
if his cologne reminded me of you
and I keep answering
I keep sitting down next to him
explaining every action
as my throat closes in on me
I keep catching myself as I tell him its nothing
like I owe your ghost an explanation.
but the problem with ghosts is that
they never seem to go away
no matter how long its been
the moment I’m close to forgetting you
is the same moment your ghost sits back down in your charcoal chair
with the leather arm rests.
THE SLOW PAIN
the first day of winter,
the day when everything was slowly turning colder
and people walking on the streets had already started to wear their burgundy jackets
i had the guts to stay silent.
i didn’t think i had anything important to say
so i rode the bus and stayed silent
i walked to my favorite restaurant and stayed silent
i ordered the usual and was still silent.
the last day of winter,
the day when everything was starting to blossom again
and people sitting in park benches had already started to buy flowers again
and feed the pigeons that had stayed behind,
i was still silent
still thinking i didn’t have anything important to say.
how foolish of me
to waste such lovely interactions
how incredibly foolish of me
to forget that sparked conversations with strangers
on the subway as you were on your way home
can be the most interesting of conversations.
but most importantly how foolish of me
not to realize the slow pain of losing myself to silence.
daffodils stood tall in the garden,
the ivory window slightly opened,
curtains ruffled with the wind,
the granite table top glossy with skinned oranges
and peeled clementines,
as honey dripped from your lips,
the shadows flirted with the dust particles that shimmered
in the doorway.
your eyes steady
cruised through my bronze skin
paused slightly, as if perusing,
my hands searched blindly,
mindlessly for yours.
a faint gust of wind
delicately perched on my shoulders.
an awaited touch melted into my body,
a soft kiss planted on my neck.
when the sun starts to bid goodbye
and the sky is its easel,
the canaries fly by the golden buildings.
silence takes flight,
apricot clouds dance with amethyst
and sapphire consumes every inch of the water below.
I feel alive
I feel my skin new
to the sounds of the earth
to the web that connects us,
I feel alive
to the equanimity of the universe
to the sounds of its birth
as they echo at dawn.
I saw the sun as it rolled out of the horizon
and spoke its truth
it claimed the hills
and quieted the seas
it told me to listen
and I heard
all life still,
as the aquarelle orange clouds danced
with the night that had already fallen.
nothing more beautiful
than the way,
for a split second,
you think the whole world is still.
From the Editor:
We hope that readers receive In Parentheses as a medium through which the evolution of human thought can be appreciated, nurtured and precipitated. It will present a dynamo of artistic expression, journalism, informal analysis of our daily world, entertainment of ideas considered lofty and criticism of today’s popular culture. The featured content does not follow any specific ideology except for that of intellectual expansion of the masses.
Founded in late 2011, In Parentheses prides itself upon analysis of the current condition of intelligence in the minds of these young people, and building a hypothesis for one looming question: what comes after Post-Modernism?
The idea for this magazine stems from a simple conversation regarding the aforementioned question, which drew out the need to identify our generation’s place in literary history.
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