XVII

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 othe way

than this: where I does not exist, or you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.
-Pablo Neruda

I was skimming through Facebook in the midst of chatting with a friend when I saw an acquaintance tagged in a post that shares how his girlfriend feels about their relationship.  How it's back and white colors.  How it's extraordinarily real.  How happy she is with their simple dreams.  

Though we are not that close, I felt the genuine happiness that they share and was inspured by it, leaving me staring at this poem for about 10 minutes with a smile plastered on my face.

And my favorite stanza has to be this:

 Te amo sin saber cómo, ni cuándo, ni de dónde,
te amo directamente sin problemas ni orgullo:
así te amo porque no sé amar de otra manera,
sino así de este modo en que no soy ni eres..."