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.
The words I see as I go to bed each and every night. They hang above my bed, watching over me as I sleep. Those beautiful beautiful words. Those words that spoke to me so deeply and ignited my love for the Spanish genius that was Pablo Neruda.
The light is fading quickly outside. I lay here on my bed, reading through the pages of Nerudas poetry, letting each one speak to me as if a friend. It's quiet moments like these that we take for granted. The moments that we get fully to ourselves. Those moments make you feel as if a wave of tranquility has washed over your body.
What makes you feel that way?