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've carried your watch in my pocket for weeks
the silver brace stays cold
mocking my weary legs with its ice-circle.
and I could have sworn I just felt your fingertips
ticking on my thigh, the way you
nervously tap-tapped, an incessant habit.

And I still can't change your pillowcase
the one you nestled your sleepy
morning shadowed cheeks into.
I drown my face in it's  solemn scent of
your bittersweet traces; blueberries and aftershave.

As I drain my soul into its cotton,
    I wish you were here to scold me for
  leaving your pillow case damp and smeared ash black.