I wrote letters to you in my thoughts and followed the movements of the road along the coast and the sea, hesitatingly. Are you on the other side of the sea? Stuff like that. The cloud hid something from the birds.

I could feel your heart beat against my dick.

I wrote myself into a frenzy back then.

You dragged me down to the outermost mountains. Occasionally, you spoke some words I did not understand. I could feel your heart beat against my dick. On the balcony, I sat in the sun following a sentence you had told me while asleep, saw it move inward and disappear in a sparkling diamond.

Parts of your dreams fell out between your lips. Like reading forgotten newspapers. I try to draw your radiant eyes in my sentences.

Suddenly one day, we dug tunnels to the Zoo. For every layer of meaning in the stones. By the hesitant shore we walked through mountains of razor shells and looked out towards the slowness of the sea. The wall around the words. Here the night is already far behind me. I think you had forgotten that one. I listened with my lips, let my lips write faraway countries into your wrists.

If I had met you earlier, I would also have followed your gaze.

I no longer have room for the fine hairs on my skin. There was something that opened up. From time to time you said some words I didn’t understand.

The northern lights hesitating in our voices. When I wrote your name in the shadows, a beam of sun fell through my window. Nothing, I received nothing. I could feel your heart beat against my dick. They light up the shadows while some liquid oozes, oozes in darkest darkness.

I sat and listened to the blue, blue sky, the laundry and the pigeons, seagulls, swallows (were they really swallows?). Do we have the same eyes? The mad sky. You answered like that. Like sitting on the palm of your hand watching your uvula break the horizon. I have written you a map. It is all about the surface, I sailed around on the surface of everything. Mid-town Aarhus, was I really in there all alone.

On a window pane. It was only the sense of fire, of water, of moon, of the functions of your body so near, the noise (that was always still). In the day a near voice was almost awake. Glass millions of years old in the darkest desert.

Red. The sentence that fell from your mouth just now.

I sailed between your lips and kissed the meteorites glittering down through the atmosphere.

Barely touching your kisses, your lines of dark. I wrote myself into a frenzy back then.

In there behind the forest. Who was it that wrote:

Now I am just sailing in version …. The most important. The books rested around the coffee.

Not seek shelter in the river. The shadows shadowed. Wind, drag me with you across the plains, drag me all the way down to the cliffs.

Can I be in this landscape? The ladder up to the sentence: I was the one who called the police.

At that part of the silence of night. This is what my dreams looked like at the time. Everything is behind everything. The most important. Sentences are delicate circuits. Later, one of the following nights, as we followed each other down each our line.

On a window pane. Of other cities, other worlds. The ideal, whispers the quiet wind, is not necessarily the trimmed trees, the tightly composed book. Glass hands. An extroverted room, an embracing room. The table wobbles.

Like sitting on a tongue, just looking out there. As if someone had written, blindly, on their own memories. The chair I sat on creaked in the sun. Figs above the view. In the evening, the light seemed to move closer to my skin and there is a happiness flickering in front of my eyes.

Reading for nothingness. I listened with my lips, let my lips write faraway countries into your wrists. The woods.

You must not. You, the sun. It is like that. It was not the fields I came from. A letter.

In the sunlight a precious stone quivers from the depths of the Earth.

Something opened up. In every day remnants of meaning slid along with me.