I awoke and lay there and saw your breathing follow up on the landscape of the duvets with little tremors and soft, undulating movements. In every day remnants of meaning slid along with me. Which night followed the night? Blue. About the transformation of the landscape and the white sky and the sea’s tints of grey.

The first couple of days still quiver in the top layers of my skin. Sentences are an ocean.

It is every single tree in my heart, quickly but inevitably stiffening among drops of water and quiet clusters of grass. The seagulls in the streaming water and up on the sky. Which night followed the night? A dark being oozes from my mouth and seems quiet.

The trees. I kissed a summer’s blush of dawn. Now I sail on dawn’s canopy of light.

They turn away from the outer mountains and return to the luminous houses, the noise and their own weird bodies.

We have neither curtains nor tight schedules. This is how you answered. At the time you were still a part of the slow, black beings of the mountains against the desperately fragile silence of the night.

The focus, coming really close to the writing. The light followed the shadows and found reflection in the flagstones, the windows, the darkness. It was parts of your dreams that fell out between your lips.

Write me into your lips. It is about surface. I lay there listening to your heart. And that sky; was a crazy day.

It is about surface. It is about surface. It is about surface. We stood in there and told stories and listened. It is about surface.

It is about surface. It is about surface. It is about surface. Something opened up. It is about surface.

It is about surface. It is about surface. It is about surface. It is about surface. It is about surface. It is about surface. It is about surface.

It is about surface. It is about surface. It is about surface. It is about surface. It is about surface. It is about surface. It is about surface. It is about surface. It is about surface. It is about surface. It is about surface. It is about surface. It is about surface. It is about surface.

You answered like that.

And we awoke. And another day: Can I write like that? Not forget the rivers in the ears. Which night followed the night? Not seek shelter in the river. If I had met you earlier, I would also have followed your gaze.

Later in the darkness, I found diamonds in your eyes. The scratches. The lime.

I don’t want to lose you, I whispered in your dream, and let my heart beat softly against your body. What shall we do with the violent sky? The water and everything that grows so strangely out of the blue. Somewhere behind the eyes a careful lamp looks. The eyes barely touching the pages. Here the day is already far ahead of me. The light followed the shadows and found reflection in the flagstones, the windows, the darkness. Up on the hill. I was in your body, and you?

I sat and listened to the blue, blue sky, the laundry and the pigeons, seagulls, swallows (were they really swallows?). Do we have the same eyes? Parts of your dreams fell out between your lips. Darkness gathers outside and I feel your heart against my skin. Everything behind everything. A dark being oozes from my mouth and seems quiet.

I kissed a summer’s blush of dawn. It doesn’t matter. Now I sail on dawn’s canopy of light.

Out in the brightness of day, I found a handful of glittering, glittering diamonds.

Everything can shift shape, can change, can transform. The chair I sat on creaked in the sun. In every day, remnants of meaning slid along with me. Darkness we just called darkness and let its blanket pull itself into the day like a turbulent cloud filled with the most fragile gravity.

Your diamonds shine in my mouth.

A shy room, an intimate room. In the night a distant voice had almost fallen asleep.

The water and everything that grows so strangely out of the blue. You dragged me down to the outermost mountains. I have written you a map. I listened with my lips, let my lips write faraway countries into your wrists. To speak was too much. Resisted, but wrote: nothing. On the bus I wrote a text message for you.

But my language was not hostile.

The movement on the surface would make the words disappear. Nothing is deeper than the skin?

On a window pane. Sun storm. Which night followed the night? I wrote myself into a frenzy back then. When I wrote your name in the shadows, a ray of sun fell through my window. 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.