Because I listen, it is quiet around here, and dark because the light sees. When I think of that place, I think it is beyond everything. From the greatest lines we find, every night – in the dark darkness that is dark – our way into the most insignificant scientific truths. In every day, your hands gently ran through my hair. The table wobbles. When I woke up, I was certain:
The light followed me sharply, and I drew on the language dancing in the inner landscapes. You wrote no further.
Someone has turned his sweater inside out. Where does ruined language want to go? Suddenly one night, giraffes fell from your dreams. Blue.
I love to wake up and see you wake up. The intimacy in writing.
Parts of your dreams fell out between your lips.
I don’t want to lose you, I whispered in your dream, and let my heart beat softly against your body.
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.