You wrote a sentence on my skin to help me look through your eyes. In the fog, not quite being able to see the road, see the path. The spaces of words are undoubtedly what is most important. The wall around the words. 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. Sun storm. Then the day slowly closed in on our eyes. As I lay there and listened, I became afraid of losing you. This is how you answered.

I was in your body, and you? What do you count to?

I was naked back in those days. I could feel your heart beat against my dick. It was before you could disappear.

I don’t disappear. What shall we do with the violent sky? You answered like that. I sailed around on the surface of everything. You can be in this landscape. Darkness gathers outside and I feel your heart against my skin.

And we thought of the smallest details, the atoms, molecules, substances reacting with substances. Can I be in this landscape?

What shall we do with the violent? I try to draw luminous eyes in my sentences. A shy, an intimate room. Every morning I wake up and think: wow! What beautiful eyes. Are you on the other side of the sea? The trees. The last time I was happy was only this morning. There was something that opened up.

By the outermost shores we found a small, green stone. When I wrote your name in the shadows, a beam of sun fell through my window. We were still, we were still quivering, quivering down to the smallest details.

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. From the smallest details we find, every morning – in the shining light that is bright – our way into the most important scientific truths. You answered like that. This is how you answered.

Glass millions of years old in the darkest desert. The sentences are tangled threads. The most important. Write me into your lips. Days. Weeks. Friends. Did you know that? It doesn’t matter. Letter in April. It was only the sense of wind, of sand, of darkness, of the distant functions of my body, the quiet (that was never quiet). Around hesitant stars we came up with names for things. We are the delicate, speaking distantly to the quiet. I read your lines.

Together we mapped the order of things lying down. 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 the fresh foliage really on fire? On the bus, I wrote you a text message.

Meaningful days with notes, reflections. Does that make sense? Someone is dressing up for dancing. Something glittered (glittered) between my fingers.

If I had met you earlier, I would also have followed your gaze. Did you drag the outermost mountains? 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.

The city idles just as heavenly under the dark-dark of the sky. Everything can shift shape, can change, can transform. The water and everything that grows so strangely out of the blue.

Somewhere behind the eyes a careful lamp looks. I had not yet met you. It was not the forests I came from. Every day slid along with me. The cloud hid something from the birds. Did you drag the outermost mountains? In the horizon a black cloud screamed for the smallest details. Was I quiet? Then the day slowly closed in on our eyes. Are you on the other side of the sea? The sand fretted my thoughts, made them round and soft until they disappeared.

We are the delicate, the quiet. Can I write like that? I tell you this, because I was lost in that desert for a longer period of time. In every day, remnants of meaning slid along with me. I would like to give you all my diamonds. One morning, you let a piece of the sky rest against my chest. In a different autumn, I would have been embarrassed by sampling. Like reading forgotten newspapers. In the lips and in the skin. One night, giraffes from dreams.

By the hesitant shore we walked through mountains of razor shells and looked out towards the slowness of the sea. Resisted, but wrote: nothing. It was parts of your dreams that fell out between your lips. The sand fretted my thoughts, made them round and soft until they disappeared. We thought about words that continued to headline campaigns. That we never really become a part of the world. Afterwards we lay across ice-age mountain ranges, across creased sheets, across a secret hesitation in the origins of diamonds.