It was before you could disappear.
Sometimes a couple in love will come across each other and shrug their shoulders at the mind of the sun. Later, one of the following nights, as we followed each other down through each our idea of it, I could no longer hide the words, the sentences, the images. Suddenly one night, giraffes fell from your dreams. Someone unfolds my thoughts and turns them into a bright future.
When I do not see you, I do not see you. In the night a distant voice had almost fallen asleep. It was before you could disappear.
Are you on the other side of the sea? When I said your name, all I heard was the quiet whisper through the sand. If I had met you earlier, I would also have followed your gaze. Sentences are. Can I write like that? You put it in my window, on my window sill. We have neither curtains nor tight schedules.
I had fallen out of a spotted sleep and into a deep melancholy and now I drove on through the sorrow of the landscape. The clothes on my body hangs on my body. Sentences are an ocean. We are a conversation rising up behind the eyes.
You dragged me towards the distant mountains like that. Take this morning, for instance: Did I drag you along to the outermost mountains? When I said your name, all I heard was the quiet whisper through the sand.
Like writing in fresh newspapers.
The lights lighted. I sat alone in the sun. They turn away from the outer mountains and return to the luminous houses, the noise and their own weird bodies. The cloud hid something from the birds. It is always this slow gaze. On a big piece of white paper. About the transformation of the landscape and the white sky and the sea’s tints of grey.
The water and everything that grows so strangely out of the blue. It was before the diamonds, even before the movement of my fingers through shadows, through hair, through town plan after town plan. Later in the darkness, I found diamonds in your eyes. We thought of contexts of natural phenomena: The quivering of northern lights in your voice; glittering secrets inside the stones, inside the Earth, inside each other. But a part of us remained out there in the empty halls.
Of other cities, other worlds. The ladder up to the sentence: I was the one who called the police. Everything behind everything. Darkness we just called darkness.
In the horizon a white cloud whispered away the smallest details. Blue. It was parts of your dreams that fell out between your lips. To speak was too much. The plain turns into darkness and stone. Letter in April. The spaces of words are undoubtedly what is most important.
Where does ruined language want to go? 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. And down through the skin to the bones, glittering-glittering, and through the bones until darkness merges with marrow. I had fallen out of a spotted sleep and into a deep melancholy and now I drove on through the sorrow of the landscape. Sentences are an ocean.
I drew black squares on your skin to make sure everything was real.
I get the day going, writing quietly. The scratches. Where does ruined language want to go? About the transformation of the landscape and the white sky and the sea’s tints of grey. I listened with my lips, let my lips write faraway countries into your wrists.
When I said your name, all I heard was the quiet whisper through the sand. The sentence that fell from your mouth just now. When I said your name, all I heard was the quiet whisper through the sand.
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.