Suddenly one night, giraffes fell from your dreams. I sat alone in the sun. Coloured the words gentle. Everything behind everything.
I don’t know where we disappeared.
The rain, the wind between the leaves of trees, your lips, your lips, your lips.
In the night a distant voice had almost fallen asleep.
I don’t disappear. Were these lines really real?
From the greatest lines we find, every night – in the dark darkness that is dark – our way into the most insignificant scientific truths. The intimacy in writing. …brb… Next to my one foot an open book was engaged in light conversation with the wind. Like the palm of a hand without flesh; light and shadow falling through it. I could not phrase those sentences.
Mail in November. Someone has put his sweater on properly. The sand. Like another night where everything was lol lol and hectic screaming in the distance. The books could not be opened, they were codes of language. A bare piece to chew on, that is what poetry is like down to the smallest details. You in my window, on my window sill.
My one pen is red and the other is black. The words tear into the innermost. Figs on the ground.
And yet, was it the big systems I feared?
While I read your sentences, you wrote further into yourself. Birds flapping in the clinking of the diode night. Nothing is deeper than the skin? The lime. Sand eyes. The techno of the northern lights, you sing, is the foreign language.
The chair wobbles.
Were these lines really real?
It doesn’t matter. The sentence that fell from your mouth just now. There was a whirling in the air and colours shimmered off the walls. I read a line of sun: I walk on sun, I know nothing but sun. The mind of the sun. The spaces of words are undoubtedly what is most important.
I write in the night, in the moist seriousness.
Was I? Afterwards we lay across ice-age mountain ranges, across creased sheets, across a secret hesitation in the origins of diamonds. I wrote nothing down in that period. The coffee is cold in the cold window, I am not going to drink it, it is cold.
I have written you a map.
In the first night, I could not settle down, the body that was absent next to me, the silence.
The ideal, said the decaying walls with contempt, is not necessarily cohesion and pop. The silicon. The mind of the sun.
Do not seek shelter in the river of another language, but learn it. In every night remnants of meaning slid along with you. The intimacy in writing.
The intimacy in writing. A dark being oozes from my mouth and seems quiet. Around hesitant stars we came up with names for things.
Everything can shift shape, can change, can transform. Afterwards I spent hours reading. My one pen is red and the other is black. The fields, you? The worried one is beside itself. Notebook. Under fire. I could feel the fragile truth. The city. Like the palm of a hand without flesh; light and shadow falling through it. Now I am writing again on the quiet. When I wrote your name in the shadows, a ray of sun fell through my window. On the bridge across the lakes I sat and I saw the seagulls, the pigeons, the swans dancing in the wind.
Something opened up.
The Town of Aved�re, three forgotten bars of a pop hit. Figs above the view. In the evening, the light seemed to move closer to my skin and there is a happiness flickering in front of my eyes. We have the same eyes. Where does ruined language want to go? In the lips and in the skin. Wind, drag me with you across the plains, drag me all the way down to the cliffs. Not seek shelter.
Not seek shelter. Not seek shelter. Not seek shelter. Not seek shelter.
Not seek shelter.
As I lay there and listened, I became afraid of losing you. Your sentences. In mountain ranges across creased sheets?
When I said your name, all I heard was the quiet whisper through the sand. I was in your body, and you?
Nothing is deeper than the skin? We stood there and listened. I think you had forgotten that one. I didn’t give a damn about my own systems, everything was an approach, everything was affectionate.