Sonnet XVII (I do not love you...)
by Pablo Neruda
I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.
I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.
I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way
than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.
Yes, this is a bit "dark," but it speaks to me at a level that is so visceral and I need to start posting again. It's been a long, long time. Funny, I have over forty drafts and can't seem to find the time to post...
After so many years, I have found that love, real love, is so like this. Loving without knowing from where and without complexities. Truly, there is no other way to love than from this place where "I does not exist, nor you..."