My soul is impatient with itself, as with a bothersome child; its restlessness keeps growing and is forever the same. Everything interests me, but nothing holds me.
Just think about the depth when you remember the distance; how 3000 miles is not longer than the moment spent between us.
The closest I can get to loving you, Is loving me. Every cell in my body is filled with you. We are each other. You are me. And I am you. Infinite love. We are one. We are everything. We are nothing. It’s perfectly. Imperfect
— Clementine von Radics, Mouthful of Forevers (via thatkindofwoman)