Wind, drag me with you across the plains, drag me all the way down to the cliffs. Around hesitant stars we came up with names for things. Desertion. In the night a distant voice had almost fallen asleep. That we never really become a part of the world. Then the day slowly closed in on our eyes.

One morning, you let a piece of the sky rest against my chest. I had fallen out of a spotted sleep and into a deep melancholy and now I drove on through the sorrow of the landscape.

I had fallen out of a spotted sleep and into a deep melancholy and now I drove on through the sorrow of the landscape. On the bus I wrote a text message for you.

I had not yet met you. I sailed around on the surface of everything. Was the wind really blowing? You answered like that. The table wobbles. Can I be in this landscape? I don’t disappear. Get lost, you answered. My sentences are crowded and lack the precise movements of days.

And we fell asleep. A letter.

The chair I sat on creaked in the sun. The most important. I sailed between your lips and kissed the meteorites glittering down through the atmosphere.

Like reading forgotten newspapers. You can be in this landscape. In every day remnants of meaning slid along with me.

It is like that. I, not you. In the lips and in the skin. You reach out your eyes towards shores to come.

Does that make sense? In the sunlight we quiver like something resembling precious stone resembling a sparkle from the depths of the Earth. 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.

Back in the past in loneliness I stretched out every sentence so it could slide across the weeks. Later, one of the following nights, as we followed each other down each our line. Do not seek shelter in the river of another language, but learn it. Your. I lay there listening to your heart. They shine out from inside darkness along with a couple of hesitant sentences and the precious unrest I was once given by accident. The intimacy in writing. The sentences are an ocean.

It was parts of your dreams that fell out between your lips. Every night the mind of the sun strikes a chasm through the mountains. The plain turns into darkness and stone. Now I am writing again on a column of poems. Can I write that?

Occasionally, you spoke some words I did not understand. For every layer of meaning in the stones. To swim in the flowing water like a foreign language, unaccustomed to the way it fits too tightly as if you were naked.

The books rested around the coffee. Back in the past in loneliness I stretched out every sentence so it could slide across the weeks. I have written you a map. Were these lines really real?

Later in the darkness, I found diamonds in your eyes. But my language was not hostile. Rain meteor. Was there really a fire somewhere? It is about surface. Behind the trees. You say something about the sun. The northern lights quivering in your voice.

Sketches. Discharge. When you touch me, when our bodies are quite close, we are part of each other.

The view was hopeless. On the bus I wrote a text message for you. A wack room, a room for stars. I wrote in my thoughts, followed the movements of the clouds with the wind. Figs above the view. I don’t disappear. Parts of your dreams fell out between your lips. Everything is behind everything. The coffee I am drinking is mild in its taste.

The mind of the sun. Sense? Don’t disappear. All around I could only pull myself together to read a few random lines. When I think of that place, I think it is beyond everything. I read random collections of poetry. We have neither curtains nor tight schedules. My sentences are crowded and lack the precise movements of days. The last time I was happy was only this morning. Because I listen, it is quiet around here, and dark because the light sees.

On the bus, I wrote you a text message. We climb mountains and sail on the outer shivering of the cities.

I could not phrase those sentences. And we thought of the smallest details, the atoms, molecules, substances reacting with substances.

The city. There is something about places brim-full of traces of things that have happened. At the time you were still a part of the slow, black beings of the mountains against the desperately fragile silence of the night.