I could feel your heart beat against my dick.
It is like that. The Town of Avedöre, three forgotten bars of a pop hit.
But a part of us remained out there in the empty halls. They shine out from inside darkness along with a couple of hesitant sentences and the precious unrest I was once given by accident. The sand fretted my thoughts, made them round and soft until they disappeared.
The scratches. Impossible to get in there. I listened with my lips, let my lips write faraway countries into your wrists. Together we mapped the order of things lying down. When you touch me, when our bodies are quite close, we are part of each other. My sentences are crowded and lack the precise movements of days.
I had fallen out of a spotted sleep and into a deep melancholy and now I drove on through the sorrow of the landscape. The Town of Avedöre, three forgotten bars of a pop hit. The To
In a different autumn, I would have been embarrassed by sampling. When you say my name, my body answers.
Was I quiet? To transform this room into another. In the morning I sit there, slowly, reading about sand, about the sand, the movements of the sand across itself. In the night a distant voice had almost fallen asleep. It is every single rock in my heart, slowly but inevitably turning into stars and sparkling diamonds. You put it in my window, on my window sill.
When I wrote your name in the shadows, a ray of sun fell through my window. The books sketched their own direction. In every day, remnants of meaning slid along with me. It is always this slow gaze. I don’t disappear. But my language was not hostile. I lay in the darkness and turned my thoughts on so they could see through the quiet. Afterwards I spent hours reading. In the night a distant voice had nearly fallen asleep. And yet, was it the big systems I feared?
You wrote a sentence on my skin to help me look through your eyes. In the fog, not quite being able to see the road, see the path. The spaces of words are undoubtedly what is most important. The wall around the words. Later, one of the following nights, as we followed each other down through each our idea of it, I could no longer hide the words, the sentences, the images. Sun storm. Then the day slowly closed in on our eyes. As I lay there and listened, I became afraid of losing you. This is how you answered.
I was in your body, and you? What do you count to?
I was naked back in those days. I could feel your heart beat against my dick. It was before you could disappear.
I don’t disappear. What shall we do with the violent sky? You answered like that. I sailed around on the surface of everything. You can be in this landscape. Darkness gathers outside and I feel your heart against my skin.
And we thought of the smallest details, the atoms, molecules, substances reacting with substances. Can I be in this landscape?
What shall we do with the violent? I try to draw luminous eyes in my sentences. A shy, an intimate room. Every morning I wake up and think: wow! What beautiful eyes. Are you on the other side of the sea? The trees. The last time I was happy was only this morning. There was something that opened up.
By the outermost shores we found a small, green stone. When I wrote your name in the shadows, a beam of sun fell through my window. We were still, we were still quivering, quivering down to the smallest details.
Later, one of the following nights, as we followed each other down through each our idea of it, I could no longer hide the words, the sentences, the images. From the smallest details we find, every morning – in the shining light that is bright – our way into the most important scientific truths. You answered like that. This is how you answered.
Glass millions of years old in the darkest desert. The sentences are tangled threads. The most important. Write me into your lips. Days. Weeks. Friends. Did you know that? It doesn’t matter. Letter in April. It was only the sense of wind, of sand, of darkness, of the distant functions of my body, the quiet (that was never quiet). Around hesitant stars we came up with names for things. We are the delicate, speaking distantly to the quiet. I read your lines.
Together we mapped the order of things lying down. At the time you were still a part of the slow, black beings of the mountains against the desperately fragile silence of the night. Was the fresh foliage really on fire? On the bus, I wrote you a text message.
Meaningful days with notes, reflections. Does that make sense? Someone is dressing up for dancing. Something glittered (glittered) between my fingers.