Can you remember me cleaning before you left? I said the reason things felt so messy was because there were so many living things growing in the house. I love that messiness, that lived feeling, it makes me realise how much living we have been doing in that space. How much living we are still doing. The aches and the pangs so tight this time, yet there’s something feverishly alive, an ecostystem, darkcomplexjoyous about this living, I feel the roots and traces of it spreading across all the spaces we inhabit or have inhabited: Peckham; Walworth; El Clot; Aùlas- all the spaces we are yet to inhabit.
Traces your nails etched into my skin you leave my blood to trickle down my arms which you taste returning something of me to yourself we are sharing pain an intimacy that lingers rich and dark I am left to linger hurting healing with the sting of your tendril-fingers scratched into my arms fluorescent and shimmering with tracelove
tracelove. This is happening with our writing too: we are leaving traces of the thisness of what is happening so we have something to come back to, like a child scratching notes into the wallpaper of the house she grew up in; like your hair; dresses; plants in the room after you have left; eating your tofu soup the night after you have cooked it. intimatetraces of both when we are together and when we are apart. That distinction is nowhere near as definitive as it used to feel, as we grow and transmutate into one another's lives
Like a mushroom on a tree trunk/ as the protein transmutates/ I knock on your skin, and I am in 
& I am in, & you are in. I'm thinking too how we our mapping our bodies into our landscapes. Thinking of the endless horizon opening up rushing to meet us, the onrushing present . How I said that to you as we shimmered all silky silvery sashaying beneath the lights in Apolo, how subconsciously I must have been thinking of that moment past the final carrers in Poblenou where the industrial towers crumble into the sea the sea the sea and the sky explodes open, so blue and vivid, violent almost, & on sunny days the light dazzles till you can barely make out the horizon. & how that's something of what this feels like. & how much we are mapping our bodies into our landscape, and then mapping these landscapes and our bodies into our writing, the different layers, the cities within cities, lattices of atoms overlapping one another, forming structures, like a protein multiplying forth, each atom informing the other, both where they touch and the spaces between. The spaces between trees. Like the black piano keys sharpened and flattened and the white spaces between, the dissonance and the harmony: constantly mutating conversation.
You when you are here and you when you are not.
wavetrace the shore glistening wet with the silvery outline of the waves as they recede drawn back to the drowning-blue violent sea
It seems you are beginning to love the messiness and darkness of you, and you are helping me to unearth my own messiness and darkness. The roots and the worms and the dirt; the two of us in the woods; our swamp; the bodies connecting with this wildness, with the soil and the weeds and getting tangled up in it. Being marked by it. earthtrace. A feeling I can explore anything with you.
& with the vividness of your memory of our times together and the beauty of those observations, made me realise how much more I am looking around me, taking note, remembering. This is part of writing and also part of leaving London: I realise how much more I am looking at the sky, seeing the trees, the space between trees, how i'm noticing so much more. For years I only saw the sky in gasps. You are teaching me so much of this. The slowing down, the exploring: my body, my body in the spaces it finds itself. My body with your body.
our love is wild and chaotic and stretching towards the sun what a fever! I can’t stop living! like the two of us on the beach at Bogatell, how cascading and green and golden all of this is. Our ecosytem, our bodies mapped upon the spaces we are living in and creating together. How much you have rooted in me my real green golden thing  . Our bulbs sprouting and choking into the light.
con mis raices, huesos y cuerpo
 Lyrics taken from the song ‘Virus’ by Bjork, in her 2014 album Biophilia.
Dani Shapiro, Hourglass (Knopf: 2017)
 Clarice Lispector, Agua Viva (Penguin: 2014)
 Anne Sexton, from ‘Admonition to a Special Person’ in Complete Poems (Resource Books: 1999)