We have the same eyes. Not forget the rivers in the ears. When you touch me, when our bodies are quite close, we are part of each other. You reach out your eyes towards shores to come. You can be in this landscape. The rain, the wind between the leaves of trees, your lips, your lips, your lips. Was it the forests you came from? It was before you could disappear. Was I quiet? We thought of contexts of natural phenomena: The quivering of northern lights in your voice; glittering secrets inside the stones, inside the Earth, inside each other.

Why did you drag me down to the outermost mountains? I see stone, I see water, I see lumps of meat squirming in a light-light idyll. Everything is behind everything.

On a window pane. And we, melancholy sleepers, talking (chat, chat), waking, falling in crosses. At the time you were still a part of the slow, black beings of the mountains against the desperately fragile silence of the night.

In the morning, darkness seems to move closer to my skin and there is an accident flickering inside my eyes. I drank short gulps of the tea, ate dry crispbread, butter and sesame seeds. Out by the factories. You mustn’t disappear. Parts of your reality slid in between my lips. We stood in there and told stories and listened. I sailed in the pulsating, in the flowing dreams of sun. The clothes on my body hangs on my body. To swim in the flowing water like a foreign language, unaccustomed to the way it fits too tightly as if you were naked.

It was parts of your dreams that fell out between your lips.

Here the day is already far ahead of me. Now I am writing again on the quiet. We are the delicate, speaking distantly to the quiet. In the night conversations popped up. I wrote letters to you in my thoughts and followed the movements of the road along the coast and the sea, hesitatingly.

The water and everything that grows so strangely out of the blue.

I could feel the fragile truth. Now a restlessness in the body. Later in the darkness, I found diamonds in your eyes.

On the bus, I wrote you a text message. In a different autumn, I would have been embarrassed by sampling. You wrote a sentence on my skin to help me see through your eyes.

I don’t want to lose you, I whispered in your dream, and let my heart beat softly against your body. By the outermost shores you had found a small, green stone. For every layer of meaning in the stones. Desertion. Sentences are an ocean. The movement on the surface would make the words disappear. Later in the darkness, I found diamonds in your eyes. I sailed between your lips and kissed the meteorites glittering down through the atmosphere.

This is how you answered.

The water and everything that grows so strangely out of the blue. Blue. I am on the other side of the sea.

The mind of the moon. It is about surface. Typing a sentence in the dark, in the light. When you touch me, when our bodies are quite close, we are part of each other. The books sketched their own direction. Our land.

The intimacy in writing.

I sailed around on the surface of everything.

You dragged me down to the outermost mountains. The books rested around the coffee.

And we awoke. Occasionally, you spoke some words I did not understand.

It is the wind blowing tunes through the rushes. The ladder up to the sentence: I was the one who called the police.

In every night remnants of meaning slid along with you. You, you.

It is every single rock in my heart, slowly but inevitably turning into stars and sparkling diamonds. I drank the dry. The view was a fuck-up-store. Some light fires and turn into hesitant smoke, while others forever stiffen up and become like stone. We thought of giraffes, cheetahs and long since extinct species living in the oceans.

I hate to wake up and see you wake up. Sentences are a desert. Glass millions of years old in the darkest desert. I sat and listened to the blue, blue sky, the laundry and the pigeons, seagulls, swallows (were they really swallows?). Your diamonds shine from my mouth. Where does ruined language want to go? My one pen is red and the other is black. The techno of the northern lights, you sing, is the foreign language. Was the wind really blowing? I could not phrase those sentences.