Now I sail on dawn’s canopy of light. The provinces and the songs of the pedestrian shopping street. I would like to give you all my diamonds. We were still, we were still quivering, quivering down to the smallest details. I get the day going, writing quietly. Back in the past in loneliness I stretched out every sentence so it could slide across the weeks. In the night a distant voice had almost fallen asleep. I let a random book lie, shining. Glass millions of years old in the luminous desert.
As if someone had written, blindly, on their own memories. In every day, your hands gently ran through my hair. The plains reached the sea that reached up to the sky that reached the eyes as a light fog. I have written you a map. From the smallest details we find, every morning – in the shining light that is bright – our way into the most important scientific truths. I drank the dry. Someone pampers my darkness in the bright future (brb). Zeitgeist. Shit. Show.
In the evening, the light seemed to move closer to my skin and there is a happiness flickering in front of my eyes. In every day, your hands gently ran through my hair. There was a whirling in the air and colours shimmered off the walls. Every night the mind of the sun strikes a chasm through the mountains. The intimacy in writing.
I wake up and see you, your eyes. Incomprehensible sentences to dress in.
Who was it that wrote:
Back in the past in loneliness I stretched out every sentence so it could slide across the weeks. In every day, remnants of meaning slid along with me. You listened to my fierce heart, every word a sun that cannot burn.
I try to draw your shining eyes in my sentences. What does it want, the loss of meaning, in these otherwise so staggeringly beautiful meanings.
The coffee I am drinking tastes like the innermost of my socks. Desert, my beloved och darkness in the green glass. The plain turns into darkness and stone. Nightfall in the evening, the lights in the city, everything sleeping, everything growing. Rain meteor. For every layer of meaning the rocks.
The books sketched their own direction.
My sentences are crowded and lack the precise movements of days.
Wind, drag me with you across the plains, drag me all the way down to the cliffs. Like sitting on the palm of your hand watching your uvula break the horizon.
I try to understand this coincidence:
To listen no longer made sense. It is the wind blowing tunes through the rushes. Everything can disappear in meaningless eyes. I lay there listening to your heart.
Later in the darkness, I found diamonds in your eyes. I no longer have room for the fine hairs on my skin. 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 books sketched their own direction. Our land. And we thought of the smallest details, the atoms, molecules, substances reacting with substances. The doubt, to stand at the edge of the mountains, to signify silence. I wrote letters to you in my thoughts and followed the movements of the road along the coast and the sea, hesitatingly.
It’s just that… The spaces of words are undoubtedly what is most important.
Nothing is deeper than the skin? I love to wake up and see you wake up. It was before the diamonds, even before the movement of my fingers through shadows, through hair, through town plan after town plan. I try to draw luminous eyes in my sentences. I wrote letters to you in my thoughts and followed the movements of the road along the coast and the sea, hesitatingly.
I lay there listening to your heart. What should be forgotten? The last time I was happy was only this morning. Someone unfolds my thoughts and turns them into a bright future. It is always this slow gaze. Blue. Can I write that? I wrote myself into a frenzy back then. Was the wind really blowing? Who was it that wrote: The coffee I am drinking is mild in its taste. I have written you a map. Sentences whispered through the laundry and dropped a few caresses on my skin.
Under the sun, your eyes like Blitzkrieg.
The coffee I am drinking tastes like the innermost of my socks. It was not the fields I came from. The fire. To gather oneself in language, the lawn’s way of being grass.
They turn away from the outer mountains and return to the luminous houses, the noise and their own weird bodies. For every layer of meaning in the stones.