she's gotoceanstucked awayin her hairpoems swimunder her skin.

i am eithera stormor a drought.in-betweenshave neverbeen my thing.

and the afterglow...of your gaze...is the onlysweater that I need.

They call it poetry, what she feels with her mouth closed. By his.

I blink January’s lashesand gush down December’s cheeks

this life has been a landscape of painand still,flowersbloom in it.

We measure everything by ourselves with almost a necessary conceit.

my dear, I have nothing to say.my heart burns like the evening sky.

But he who feels too much,He soars in angels’ tears of joy...

My poetry is the highest valuable thing I have to make you smile...

Und wenn mir nachts die Sonne scheintist niemand dader mit mir weint

there are these places on your poem, / where I want to write bodies.

There are things that are not sayable. That's why we have words.

He confided his deepest secret to you; be always wary of his secret.

Stars ink your fingerswith a lexicon of flameblazing rare knowledge.