I wrote nothing down in that period. Reading for nothingness. It is like that.
Everything is behind everything. Our land. In the sunlight we quiver like something resembling precious stone resembling a sparkle from the depths of the Earth. Behind the trees. The eyes barely touching the pages. I lay there listening to your heart. I wrote letters to you in my thoughts and followed the movements of the road along the coast and the sea, hesitatingly.
I awoke and lay there and saw your breathing follow up on the landscape of the duvets with little tremors and soft, undulating movements. 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. It is every single rock in my heart, slowly but inevitably turning into stars and sparkling diamonds. I get the day going, writing quietly. The pain sailing on streams of gold in dawn’s canopy of light.
I’ve stalled on the threshold of the night. When I wrote your name in the light, a moonbeam fell through my window.
I flick through the pages of some random book. I know we disappeared. Sentences are an ocean. The sentences are tangled threads. My bones are also making sounds, and inside them a dark being undulates and moves. I could feel the fragile truth. I get the day going, writing quietly. The sand fretted my thoughts, made them round and soft until they disappeared. I try to draw your dark eyes in my sentences. The sand fretted my thoughts, made them round and soft until they disappeared.
I drew black squares on your skin to make sure everything was real.
My one pen is red and the other is black. I would like to give you all my diamonds.
Impossible to get in there.
By the outermost shores you had found a small, green stone. It is like that.
It is like that. It is like that. It is like that.
It is like that. It is like that. It is like that. It is like that. It is like that. It is like that. It is like that. It is like that. It is like that. It is like that. It is like that. It is like that.
It is like that.
We stood in there and told stories and listened. I’m just waiting around for the fucking sun. In the horizon a white cloud whispered away the smallest details. I sailed across the sea, drifted across the sky. A dark being oozes from my mouth and seems quiet. Every night the mind of the sun strikes a chasm through the mountains.
I sat and listened to the blue, blue sky, the laundry and the pigeons, seagulls, swallows (were they really swallows?).
I try to understand this coincidence: I’m just waiting around for the fucking sun. A letter. Now my dreams drift into a gentler, better time. Something caught the eyes, made them shed tears until it looked like crying.
I was in your body, and you? It is never the fast gaze. A line threatened to intervene in my thoughts, to seduce my thoughts, terrify my thoughts. Someone has put his sweater on properly.
When I wake up and see you open your eyes. You wanted to say something, you kept silent. I don’t know where we disappeared. 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. I had not yet met you. When I wrote your name in the shadows, a ray of sun fell through my window. You must not disappear. Then someone tried his hand at literary debate. The sentences are an ocean. It is like that.
Nothing should be forgotten. Then someone tried his hand at literary debate. …brb… On a. A bare piece to chew on, that is what poetry is like down to the smallest details. The mind of the sun.
When you say my name, my body answers. Sometimes a couple in love will come across each other and shrug their shoulders at the mind of the sun. I would like to give you all my diamonds. The sentence that fell from your mouth just now.
I wrote myself into a frenzy back then. Then the day slowly closed in on our eyes. There is something about places that ooze and freeze: everything congealed. When our bodies are each other. On a big piece of white paper. Coloured a bit of black into your desert. The view was hopeless.
In every day, remnants of meaning slid along with me. I went for walks on my own, listening to other people’s loving conversations.
We thought of old fossils, raw thoughts of silence. I read random collections of poetry. Here the day is already far ahead of me. Desertion.
Occasionally, you spoke some words I did not understand.
Afterwards it was the unrest, the lonely unrest of waking in days torn and quiet. Somewhere in there under the despair of the sand, someone finds a small sparkling, a small sparkling green.