Now I must write about you, as a child painting water, to stop my slide into nowhere, with my teeth catching at the values in the air.

I should whisper you grieved and myriad words, so that in the end you could understand me quietly. And I should taste you from the core of the clay, in which I trusted as in the Playboy bunny, who in the name of art builds up a moon in green garments out of beds of cabbage and mild carrots.

Though the air is ash, its limits shape me in the grass, close to the face of an ant. I watch it as I did with us – almost caught in the labyrinth between hand and mouth. And my blood is all made up of caves, deep sand castles rising only once; when you are near.