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 think it is beautiful
that poets,
from all over,
are able to gather here
to share what we
have a passion for.
and there are writers,
who would rather
write about the bright side
than the darkness,
and there are others
who are comfortable doing
the opposite.

to create something lovely,
we write by ourselves,
but we are also writing
together.
and i am not sure if
this is as sincere
as i would like for it to be,
but i want to say thank you
for writing with me.