XVII (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.

I have loved this poem the moment I laid my eyes on it. I remember those days when I used to write silly love poems on my blue notebook. My guy friends borrowed it and used some of them in their love letters. Until it got lost. How I'd love to read again and remember how my mind worked then. I hardly write poems these days. Unless I'm really sad or pissed off. Hahaha.

Problem now is that I can't play with words like I used to. I forget words like they are just at the tip of my tongue but couldn't say them. Yup, memory gap it is. Must be the meds or the surgeries I've gone through. Whatever! Definitely, I can't be as good as Pablo Neruda. But this I know, I can be my hubby's Elizabeth Browning. And that is all that matters.

Currently listening to: take a bow - leona lewis
Currently reading: A year in High Heels - C. Morton
Currently feeling: sleepy
Posted by princess_bride on February 22, 2009 at 09:27 PM | dance with me
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