I wrote letters to you in my thoughts and followed the movements of the road along the coast and the sea, hesitatingly. There was something that opened up. Seek shelter. Deserted. The intimacy in writing. It was parts of your dreams that fell out between your lips. We, to the quiet. You, you. Me, the fragile truth. I wrote letters to you in my thoughts and followed the movements of the road along the coast and the sea, hesitatingly. At the time you were still a part of the slow, black beings of the mountains against the desperately fragile silence of the night.
Was it the fields you came from? Did you know that? Did I sit alone? A letter. I could not phrase those sentences. We were still, we were still quivering, quivering down to the smallest details. The movement on the surface would make the words disappear. When you touch me, when our bodies are quite close, we are part of each other. Suddenly one night, giraffes fell from your dreams. You wrote a sentence on my skin to help me look through your eyes.
It was before you could disappear. A shy room, an intimate room. We have neither curtains nor tight schedules.
My lines come back. I could feel your heart beat against my dick. And yet, was it the big systems I feared?
It is about surface. It streamed out me, new sentences, old sentences, and now: again.
Was it the forests you came from?
The sand. We thought of giraffes, cheetahs and long since extinct species living in the oceans. You dragged me down to the outermost mountains. You say something about the sun. What does it want, the loss of meaning, in these otherwise so staggeringly beautiful meanings. Wind, drag me with you across the plains, drag me all the way down to the cliffs.
Next to my one foot an open book was engaged in light conversation with the wind.
Up on the hill. It is the wind blowing tunes through the rushes. Resisted, but wrote: nothing. The most important. When I woke up, I was certain:
Did I drag you along to the outermost mountains? The ideal, whispers the quiet wind, is not necessarily the trimmed trees, the tightly composed book.
Who was it that wrote: The northern lights quivering in your voice. This is what my dreams looked like at the time. Out in the brightness of day, I found a handful of glittering, glittering diamonds.
When I wrote your name in the shadows, a ray of sun fell through my window. They shine out from inside darkness along with a couple of hesitant sentences and the precious unrest I was once given by accident.
As if someone had written, blindly, on their own memories. And we awoke. A shy room, an intimate room. Nothing should be forgotten. From time to time you said some words I didn’t understand. I try to draw your shining eyes in my sentences. Do we have the same eyes? I awoke and lay there and saw your breathing follow up on the landscape of the duvets with little tremors and soft, undulating movements. The lime. I sailed around on the surface of everything.