Do you understand the sadness of geography?

What is interesting and important happens mostly in secret, in places where there is no power.

How does this happen? To fall in love and be disassembled.

I'll be looking at the moon, but I'll be seeing you.

She lights a match in the dark hall and moves it onto the wick of the candle. Light lifts itself onto her shoulders. She is on her knees. She puts her hands on her thighs and breathes in the smell of the sulphur. She imagines she slap breathes in light.

There was a time when mapmakers named the places they travelled through with the names of lovers rather than their own.

What he would say, he cannot say to this woman whose openness is like a wound, whose youth is not mortal yet. He cannot alter what he loves most in her, her lack of compromise, where the romance of the poems she loves still sits with ease in the real world. Outside these qualities he knows there is no order in the world.