The intimacy in writing. When you say my name, my body answers. What does it want, the loss of meaning, in these otherwise so staggeringly beautiful meanings. Do not seek shelter in the river of another language, but learn it. The sand. The air and the songs of the Earth. Next to my one foot an open book was engaged in light conversation with the wind. Occasionally, you spoke some words I did not understand. My sentences are crowded and lack the precise movements of days.
Coloured the words gentle. I could not phrase those sentences. I found a line somewhere under my bookcase. The sand.
As if someone had written, blindly, on their own memories. To swim in the flowing water like a foreign language, unaccustomed to the way it fits too tightly as if you were naked. Letter in April.
Do not seek shelter in the river of another language, but learn it.
Parts of your reality slid in between my lips. And we awoke.
This slow gaze against the stones. At the time you were still a part of the slow, black beings of the mountains against the desperately fragile silence of the night. We thought of old fossils, raw thoughts of silence. And yet, was it the big systems I feared? Now my dreams drift into a gentler, better time. I think you had forgotten that one.
Every night the mind of the sun strikes a chasm through the mountains. I was in your body, and you? You reach out your eyes towards shores to come. We thought of giraffes, cheetahs and long since extinct species living in the oceans. I flick through the pages of some random book. We are the delicate, speaking distantly to the quiet. Back in the past in loneliness I stretched out every sentence so it could slide across the weeks.
By the hesitant shore we walked through mountains of razor shells and looked out towards the slowness of the sea.
You answered like that. Someone unfolds my thoughts and turns them into a bright future.
I flick through the pages of some random book. I drank short gulps of the tea, ate dry crispbread, butter and sesame seeds.
A shy room, an intimate room. When I woke up, my dreams had always left a trap behind. Something was dull (was dull) between my fingers.
You answered like that. The sand fretted my thoughts, made them round and soft until they disappeared. A shy room, an intimate room. When you say my name, my body answers. This is not a game. You can be in this landscape. Nothing is deeper than the skin? This is how you answered. Afterwards it was the unrest, the lonely unrest of waking in days torn and quiet. You say something about the sun. The table wobbles. Were these lines really real? We stood in there and told stories and listened.
I sat and listened to the blue, blue sky, the laundry and the pigeons, seagulls, swallows (were they really swallows?).
It is every single tree in my heart, quickly but inevitably stiffening among drops of water and quiet clusters of grass. And that sky; was a crazy day. The mind of the sun. Of all the shining, reflecting, dull. The eyes barely touching the pages. Here the day is already far ahead of me.
I wrote letters to you in my thoughts and followed the movements of the road along the coast and the sea, hesitatingly.
The books sketched their own direction.
We thought about words we could not forget. Desertion. Assertion. The sentences are an ocean. Then someone tried his hand at literary debate. Letter in April. I have written you a map. Everything can shift shape, can change, can transform.
We stood in there and told stories and listened. A shy room, an intimate room.
You answered like that. I could feel your heart beat against my dick. Suddenly one night, giraffes fell from your dreams.
We are the delicate, speaking distantly to the quiet. Did you know that? On a big piece of white paper. Was I quiet? Not seek shelter in the river.
Someone has turned his sweater inside out. In the evening, the light seemed to move closer to my skin and there is a happiness flickering in front of my eyes. It is all about the surface, I sailed around on the surface of everything. Afterwards it was the unrest, the lonely unrest of waking in days torn and quiet. Some light fires and turn into hesitant smoke, while others forever stiffen up and become like stone. Like reading forgotten newspapers.