"Letters to Milena," by Franz Kafka.

You’re beautiful! I want to know this kind of beauty until no more of it exists.

I’d like to think we’re friends in every universe. You wrap my hand in gauze and blow on it, telling me I’m worth the hassle. I watch as you blossom, so much bigger than this life. I wish to see you everyday.

He took my hand in his and said. ‘I had a dream last night. That you and I are painfully connected.’

Incredible nervous state, trepidation beyond words: to be this much in love is to be sick (and I love to be sick).

To know this severing. To be unwound in the service of your teeth. To be wrecked by the hillside. Anything that hurts more than a field. What was found beneath a stone, / or the tenderness of any new skin.

A soul – dearer to me than my own soul – gave shade to me (protecting me) from the sun. It gave shade to me, how strange, a sun shading (protecting) me from the sun.

I’m thinking only of my illness and my health, though both, the first as well as the second, are you.

I loved many before you, and I'll see many after you, and I met many when I was with you, but you are outside of the geometry of repetition.

I’m tired, can’t think of anything and want only to lay my face in your lap, feel your hand on my head and remain like that through all eternity.

What do you think? I'm not a starfish or a pepper tree. I'm a living, breathing human being. Of course I've been in love.

Battered and wrecked, I come to you, you first—

For myself I am too heavy, and for you too light.

Her finger dug in my underjaw was the first time I'd been touched in months. You can't know how many minutes I spent on this. For you. What's a dollar when I'm telling you I trembled like a bathing animal.

When he looks at me, the way he looks at me... He does not know, what I lack... Or - how - I am incomplete. He sees me, for what I - am, as I am. He's happy - to see me.

I used to lie there beside you, watching you sleep. I thought it was the closest I'd ever get to peace. I looked at you and I realized that I loved you more than I ever knew how to say.

How do I look away now that I have seen you?

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.

My lovely little dove, please don't leave. Whatever you want you can have here, too, with me, we can share it. You're always leaving. Please stop leaving, it kills me every time.