At that moment, nothing else mattered

You mean something to someone
For someone else you mean everything
Never have you ever felt something just like that

In the night you only belong to her
She knows you
She has seen the real you
No one else knows
Just her
She knows you
She knows who you are
You don’t have to hide
You are good
Just the way you are
To her, you mean everything


Hot breathes against your breasts
Her lips nipping yours
Her lips - hot - on yours

Deep sighs cut
Through the silence
In the night


You two together
You love
You love so gently

So beautifully
So slowly
So significant

When making love


a painting
of sweat and of tears
of love and of blood

a portrait
of love and of lust
of kisses and of feelings

of her and of you
of you two together

That night, when
You were just hers
She was just yours
And everything else was

// written in swedish October 2012 & translated into english in June 2017

“What impels me to write to you all the time? … at every moment the order to write to you is given, no matter what, but to write to you, and I love, and this is how I recognize that I love.”
―Jacques Derrida, “Envois,” The Post Card

“Language is a skin: I rub my language against the other. It is as if I had words instead of fingers, or fingers at the tip of my words. My language trembles with desire.”
Roland Barthes, “Talking,” in A Lover’s Discourse

“Write to me only once a week, so that your letter arrives on Sunday — for I cannot endure your daily letters, I am incapable of enduring them. For instance, I answer one of your letters, then lie in bed in apparent calm, but my heart beats through my entire body and is conscious only of you. I belong to you; there is really no other way of expressing it, and that is not strong enough.”
―Franz Kafka, Letters to Milena