"my water"

What do we mean when we say "we"?
Where do we plunge into when we say "we"?
She believed not. Hand in hand not. With some green dust of leaves and kisses not.
Only her shadow through some veils. Disclosing just one layer of thin air. Opening internal horizons - though. I confess. My aim is to deepen the silence of the youngest gods on contradictions. My chest aches virtually. I am writing the introduction while she harbors rare suns. The rarest suns.
There will be a book of green kisses. Slightly sour and misunderstood.
She had laws. I had not. Only young contradictions. As mechanical as old alarm-clocks. Exploding randomly through her skin. Calling kisses into question. Even the specter of it. Misunderstood. And the weather was nothing but a text with her handwriting. All her signs in it. And the time forces growing like young horses. That's why those blades of grass on her veils were speaking of intrinsic motions. They produce eachother like my dense hours of sand. In front of my windy idea of caressing a magnolia and flying. Beyond the possibility of lifeless mountains. Beyond the dilemma of embarking now or not, of holding my breath or not. The white foam draws in from the chest that was aching. Still to be or not. Whispers.