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Grip calling you, so I dialled each number in his book until I reached yours. The first thing you say is I’m desperate to share this with you. Let’s be peaks, pine trees, magpies. We can wait for each other to change slowly over centuries. We’ll collect every copper coin, every silver needle, that the other leaves behind. We’ll sew pillows with the tamarind and jasmine that arrive, tacit and silken, between snowfalls. I know I’ve not yet loved you enough, but how can we be in two beds of feather and straw? should be dying in one another’s arms,

Sina queyra