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In a way, you are poetry material; You are full of cloudy subtleties I am willing to spend a lifetime figuring out. Words burst in your essence and you carry their dust in the pores of your ethereal individuality.
Franz Kafka, Letters To Milena (via sequences)
(Source: rabbitinthemoon, via scyrius)
In my dreams you are a gentle thing, easily crumpled and needing to be talked smooth. My mouth curling around your psyche like a mother’s.
But awake, when you do give me yourself, you feel like a root I’ve somehow pulled up—not quite wooden, not quite rough, and the grit hums a dirt-song between my meticulous teeth.
