I sat somewhere quiet in the past, writing and drawing. Why did you drag me down to the outermost mountains?

Days. Weeks. One morning, you let a piece of the sky rest against my chest. We, behind the eyes. The trees. I wrote nothing down in that period.

Stuff like that.

The spaces of words are undoubtedly what is most important.

And only thought of the lines, of the way they resembled, the way they coloured and charmed and I don’t know what. A shy room, an intimate room. Incomprehensible sentences to dress up in. From time to time you said some words. The lights lighted.

When I read a boring poem, I read a boring poem and it struck me: The summer was quite all right after all, autumn and winter. 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.

I wrote letters to you in my thoughts and followed the movements of the road along the coast and the sea, hesitatingly.

A shy room, an intimate room. The jars stood in a shining line between a flight of steps and the house shadows under the roofs. I saw ships moving behind the sea, the light of their sentences in rough seas.

Was there really a fire somewhere?

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.