Someone asked me what home was and all I could think of were the stars on the tip of your tongue, the flowers sprouting from your mouth, the roots entwined in the gaps between your fingers, the ocean echoing inside of your ribcage.
e. e. cummings-Before leaving my room i turn, and (stooping through the morning) kiss this pillow, dear where our heads lived and were.
e. e. cummingsWhenever you think or you believe or you know, you're a lot of other people: but the moment you feel, you're nobody-but-yourself.
e. e. cummings