Lisbon Would Lose Its Magic Without Lovers Like Us

We walked hand in hand.

The streets were old and uneven,

But we didn’t notice.

Our legs were tired,

Our mouths warm from kissing.

We had already shared

A glass or two of sangria.

Then we passed a quiet bar in the corner —

The kind where old men sit alone,

Speaking low,

Trying to remember who they used to be.

We went inside.

Not to chase anything,

Just to be still for a while.

Maybe to add something light to the room.

While you ordered our drinks,

I looked up at the sky

And thought:

If I could take a picture with my eyes,

I would keep this one.

Frame it with silence.

We said cheers,

And a soft wind came through the doorway.

My hair flew wild,

You smiled in that way you do

When nothing needs to be said.

You looked at me and said,

"You are absolutely gorgeous."

A song played on the radio.

It said:

Love is not about time.

Not about how long.

It’s a moment.

When someone lets you in.

Truly in.

And we drank our amêndoa amarga.

And I knew:

Lisbon would lose its magic

Without lovers like you,

Lovers like me.