inheavenandmirth:

what is love? ‘tis not hereafter;
present mirth hath present laughter;
what’s to come is still unsure:
in delay there lies no plenty;
then come kiss me, sweet and twenty,
youth’s a stuff will not endure.

feste • twelfth night

lover,

it is true that i really loved you
though you vanished
like honey in hot water

and you taste like cinnamon on my lips,
leaving a spice in my breath

you had maps of old cities in your skin
the ruins of forgotten lands in your knuckles

skeletons of ferns lining
the future behind your eyelids