Between what I write and what I want to write, there’s a corpse. A naked body we know by heart, a mother’s tears, a lamp fading away. You look at the posters on the bathroom door, the picture where I took off my clothes for Spencer Tunick, the books that filled up the empty chimney, the swords with Celtic engravings. Then you asked if all of that belonged to a foreign world, a kind of flight. The light was shining and I played the album Ella & Louis. Dear soul of yours that will be mine someday: any beach will be glorious and you will bite the fruit while we remain silent. This is how I intended to begin the poem but your hand touched mine and there was nothing but the silence of a strange serpent encircling us.