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 am in love with you,
Love.
I want so badly to need somebody,
To be the somebody that they need.
To commit my whole heart to them,
and for them to commit their whole heart to me.
Too often do I love the idea of a person,
Rather than seeing them for who they really are.
Love intoxicates and skews my vision.
And it tears my heart apart.


Oh, I am indeed in love.
Not with him and not with her,
But with an idea.
The idea of loving someone who is deserving of my heart.
The idea of loving so fiercely that our spark will never dwindle
I am in love with you,
Love.