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.

For we have thought the larger thoughts
    And gone the shorter way.
And we have danced to devil's tunes,
    Shivering home to pray;
To serve one master in the night,
    Another in the day.

We were just ruled by wishful thinking
Idealizing our lives, believing in our dreams
I wonder how much of that we’ll get to fulfill
You said even if our dreams remained as they are
At least we could define our perfect futures
And I believed you
Not because of sensibility,
But because of trust
And we both know that supersedes everything else
All the more made possible with the stark promise of reality

For me, that’s more than enough

I want to see you in the star-scapes and nightfall
But weaved into my daydreams is all where you reside
Would it be too much to ask, if you were to be my cartographer,
For the guidelines to your heart only seem to perforate my soul
I want to see you in the wilderness, desolate and robust,
I want to see you take me there.
I want to see you, nothing short of happy
Void of all the things that cast you downward
I’d give you the world; I don’t have to see it back,
Only as long as the distance between us is all but time,
For the logical perimeters of restriction would uphold,
It is merely restricting the sublime from resonating within you,
For far too long.

You can make sense of everything,
articulate them into feelings and such,
but in the midst of translation to words,
the all too familiar shards of recognition and logic collide and compounds this potential illusion.
My thoughts are not deserving to be read, to be acknowledged by you,
but some may say that is merely a solitary view.
Who am I to judge myself,
but more importantly who am I to judge you?
I’d have never wanted to discard this common thread, frail but still tensile;
yet the weak spirit struggles to rise up and there she goes,
falling backward, away and away from where she wants to go.
Still in denial of what I’ll do for you;
I reckon it will last as long as I’ll never know that my heart,
My heart, that is now in use, will keep you.