Write me into your lips.

One morning, you let a piece of the sky rest against my chest. Around hesitant stars we came up with names for things. As I lay there and listened, I became afraid of losing you. You answered like that.

From time to time you said some words I didn’t understand. There was something that opened up. The last time I was happy was only this morning.

The mad sky. Darkness we just called darkness and let its blanket pull itself into the day like a turbulent cloud filled with the most fragile gravity.

In the evening, the light seemed to move closer to my skin and there is a happiness flickering in front of my eyes.

I stood and listened to the clouds in the sky, the laundry and the pigeons, seagulls, swallows (were they really swallows?).

The Town of Avedöre, three forgotten bars of a pop hit. Coloured the words gentle.

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. In the images, my language had become hostile:

When I woke up, I was certain: It is all about the surface, I sailed around on the surface of everything.

The pain sailing on streams of gold in dawn’s canopy of light.

Our land.

I tell you this, because I was lost in that desert for a longer period of time. We have the same eyes.

The fire. When I do not see you, I do not see you. The view was hopeful.

Someone unfolds your thoughts and turns them into a dark future. Back in the past in loneliness I stretched out every sentence so it could slide across the weeks. Most important.

I could feel the fragile truth.

Coloured the words gentle. I hate to wake up and see you wake up.

We are the delicate, speaking distantly to the quiet.

The coffee I am drinking is mild in its taste. I could not phrase those sentences. The fire. Do not seek shelter in the river of another language, but learn it. Can I be in this landscape? The sentence that fell from your mouth just now. I would like to give you all my diamonds. I drank short gulps of the tea, ate dry crispbread, butter and sesame seeds. Desertion. They overshadow the light with a couple of hesitant sentences and the important calm I was once given by accident.

On the bus, I wrote you a text message.

Where does ruined language want to go?

I try to draw your radiant eyes in my sentences. In every day, remnants of meaning slid along with me. The air and the songs of the Earth.

And only thought of the lines, of the way they resembled, the way they coloured and charmed and I don’t know what.

Did I drag you along to the outermost mountains? Nothing should be forgotten. And that sky; was a crazy day. I lay there listening to your heart. The plains reached the sea that reached up to the sky that reached the eyes as a light fog. The most important.

That we never really become a part of the world. It was not the fields I came from. The lights lighted. You reach out your eyes towards shores to come.

The wall around the words. And yet, was it the big systems I feared? When you say my name, my body answers. I get the day going, writing quietly. I flick through the pages of some random book.

Then someone tried his hand at literary debate. Was there really a fire somewhere? I sat somewhere quiet in the past, writing and drawing. As if someone had written, blindly, on their own memories. The intimacy in writing.