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 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.

--Pablo Neruda
Translated by Stephen Tapscott

You are far away across the room across the state and even as I ask why I know I've put you there. I have asked you to stay and you have. Let me walk back to you, green eyes reflecting your face and not the exit door. (This forum is a poor excuse for letters but it's so much easier sometimes to carve these things out in the middle of the public square than to say them out loud to a pair of waiting eyes.)
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How many more times will I write this? What's the line-length of the boulder I'm pushing?
*
An aside:
"Feminism is surely a failure if you can't fuck your best friend."
--Mary Fallon
Certainly.