I was naked back in those days. Around hesitant stars, things. Then the day slowly closed eyes. Darkness we just called darkness. The scratches. Why did you drag me down to the outermost mountains? In the lips and in the skin. Behind the trees.

I was in your body, and you? On the bus, I wrote you a text message. It doesn’t matter. The ladder up to the sentence: I was the one who called the police.

The city idles just as heavenly under the dark-dark of the sky. 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. Through the hole in the wall. It is the wind blowing tunes through the rushes. When I fell asleep, I was no longer sure: When you touch me, when our bodies are quite close, we are part of each other. You answered like that.

On the bus I wrote a text message for you. I’ve stalled on the threshold of the day. The spaces of words are undoubtedly what is most important. It was not the fields I came from. I try to draw your radiant eyes in my sentences. A shy room, an intimate room. The coal. Notes. Descriptions. Blue. On a big piece of white paper. On the balcony, I sat in the sun following a sentence you had told me while asleep, saw it move inward and disappear in a sparkling diamond. Blue.

Blue. Blue. Blue.

Where does ruined language want to go? I wrote nothing down in that period. The sand. The most important. The air and the songs of the Earth. I love to wake up and see you wake up. I could not phrase those sentences. Your eyes and the sound of rain from the busy roof. Star continent. I sailed between your lips and kissed the meteorites glittering down through the atmosphere. A line threatened to intervene in my thoughts, to seduce my thoughts, terrify my thoughts.

On the balcony, I sat in the sun following a sentence you had told me while asleep, saw it move inward and disappear in a sparkling diamond. You wrote a sentence on my skin to help me look through your eyes. All around I could only pull myself together to read a few random lines. I try to draw luminous eyes in my sentences. The ideal, whispers the quiet wind, is not necessarily the trimmed trees, the tightly composed book. I love to wake up and see you wake up.

The mad sky.

What I came from …. I wrote myself into a frenzy back then. I no longer have room for the fine hairs on my skin. I think beautiful eyes. I think beautiful eyes. The movement on the surface would make the words disappear. Your diamonds shine from my mouth. Afterwards I spent hours reading. I drew black squares on your skin to make sure everything was real.

Were these lines really real? I think beautiful eyes.

The ladder up to the sentence: I was the one who called the police. Reading for nothingness. Afterwards we lay across ice-age mountain ranges, across creased sheets, across a secret hesitation in the origins of diamonds. The woods reached the desert that reached the Earth that reached the eyes like a light clarity.

Back then we were slacking while the days passed between the nights. Notes. Descriptions.

Was I quiet? Everything behind everything. I could feel the fragile truth. The air and the songs of the Earth. When I woke up, my dreams had always left a trap behind.

I try to draw your shining eyes in my sentences.

I try to draw your shining eyes in my sentences.

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.

I try to draw your shining eyes in my sentences. I try to draw your shining eyes in my sentences. I try to draw your shining eyes in my sentences.

Together we mapped the order of things lying down. Occasionally, you spoke some words I did not understand. And down through the skin to the bones, glittering-glittering, and through the bones until darkness merges with marrow. Something opened up. By the hesitant shore we walked through mountains of razor shells and looked out towards the slowness of the sea. The sentences are an ocean. In the morning I sit there, slowly, reading about sand, about the sand, the movements of the sand across itself.

Like writing in code. The cloud hid something from the birds. The focus, coming really close to the writing. I love to wake up and see you wake up. But my language was not hostile.

In the sunlight we quiver like something resembling precious stone resembling a sparkle from the depths of the Earth.

Everything can shift shape, can change, can transform. The shyness in writing.