I was satisfied with haiku until I met you,
but now I want a Russian novel,
a 50-page description of you sleeping.
“I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles. You will hardly know who I am or what I mean But I shall be good health to you nonetheless And filter and fibre your blood.” - Walt Whitman, "Song of Myself"