then i think of you in bed, your tongue half chocolate, half ocean, of the houses that you swing into, of the steel wool hair on your head, of your persistent hands and then how we gnaw at the barrier because we are two.
how you come and take my blood cup and link me together and take my brine. we are bare. we are stripped to the bone and we swim in tandem and go up and up the river, the identical river called mine and we enter together. no one’s alone.
music composed by max richter – lullaby from songs from before, 2006
i sat at the kitchen table, and watched the sky grow lighter by the minute. it had been a long time since i’d seen the dawn. at one end of the sky a line of blue appeared, and like blue ink on a piece of paper, it spread slowly across the horizon. if you gathered together all the shades of blue in the world and pick the bluest, the epitome of blue, this was the color you would choose. — haruki murakami, south of the border, west of the sun, 1992
when i no longer have your heart i will not request your body your presence or even your polite conversation. i will go away to a far country separated from you by the sea — on which i cannot walk — and refrain even from sending letters describing my pain.