It was only the sense of wind, of sand, of darkness, of the distant functions of my body, the quiet (that was never quiet). The intimacy in writing. Like sitting on a tongue, just looking out there. I don’t want to lose you, I whispered in your dream, and let my heart beat softly against your body. Sentences whispered through the laundry and dropped a few caresses on my skin. Glass hands. When I woke up, my dreams had always left a trap behind.