There are some evenings where I cannot find the words to capture my own thoughts and feelings. There are some evenings where my current state consists of confusion and calm, happiness and anxiety, love and the fear of being alone. There are some evenings where transitions catch up with me and keep me up, contemplating things for which I have no words.
There are some evenings when all I know is that what I want does not exist in my own words yet, but there are those who have already captured it in theirs.
So tonight, here is a Pablo Neruda poem. Linger with these words for just a bit, okay?
I don’t love you as if you were a rose of salt, topaz,
or arrow of carnations that propagate fire:
I love you as one loves certain obscure things,
secretly, between the shadow and the soul.
I love you as the plant that doesn’t bloom but carries
the light of those flowers, hidden, within itself,
and thanks to your love the tight aroma that arose
from the earth lives dimly in my body.
I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you directly without problems or pride:
I love you like this because I don’t know any other way to love,
except in this form in which I am not nor are you,
so close that your hand upon my chest is mine,
so close that your eyes close with my dreams.