Not too long after I graduated college, I met a man. And while I'd crushed, dated, etc., and often...I'd never been adored the way he seemed to adore me. I thought I felt the same...however, hindsight always being so clear, I now know I simply loved the ridiculous, romantic way he loved me. He used to buy me single roses, bacci chocolates, and the piece de resistance...volumes of poetry by Pablo Neruda. And long after all the other things have faded, the Neruda has stayed with me...and now, I truly understand it. Because love, of course, is not about bacci chocolate and flowers....it is about those other places, 'between the shadow and the soul' that Neruda so eloquently paints. I know those places. I live in those places. I love those places.
XVII (I do not love you...)
by 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.
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