my citrus fruit who bloomed in the beautiful planet of where ever you’re from you cultivated chants in me that I memorized in deep sleep
I see now that the sheeps were metaphors of how many times I thought of you.



Loverboy, faithful endowed to his muse. Play the trombone with your heart, create a masterpiece with your hands, sing to me the blues that men sung in nights of loneliness so that I can witness your pain in first person, cradle you to comfort second, and love you forever in third.


Somewhere between fuck you and I wanna love you

lickdacake:

playa-pleathee:

Need

Same.

My only regret is that
I didn’t tell enough people
to fuck off.

My 92 year old grandma. (via safeguards)

(Source: lule-bell)






vinebox:

I just died




winchstah:

some things never change.

(Source: sherlockew)





liquorinthefront:

yourstorm:

Talk about style.

such a babe.