The Swedish word for “key” is nyckel.
You’re all the nyckels to my heart, all the panes to my window, all the plates
to my cupboard. When I was a child my mother used to sing Ave Maria
to me until I fell asleep.
And I thought there was nothing more beautiful then the sound of her voice
wavering slowly above the treetops, until I heard the sound of yours.
It’s somewhere between a pianissimo and a rainstorm:
I am no longer afraid of thunder.
When we both turn twenty-one and blow out our candles
like the oil lamps in a light house being extinguished one by one,
I’ll keep the remaining flames in my mouth
and transfer them to yours.
We’ll both be so full of light
that we won’t know whether to burn,
or consume.