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 want you to know
one thing.

You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.

Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.

If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.

If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
remember
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.

But
if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine

there is still love after your death
that trickles from my tears
and the sound my string quartet makes
from the symphony where my heart once lay.

there is still life after your loss
though the flowers aren't quite as vivid
and the way the sun beams peak from the clouds
no longer chokes up a sense of joy, but sorrow.

there is still chaos from the clarity, that was you--
no matter the love
no matter the life
and no matter the heartbeat, it's not you.

no joy will suffice like the melted time
and melted lives we once knew.

and--
if there is still love after your death,
why must the sun run from the moon?

I have no wit, I have no words, no tears;
My heart within me like a stone
Is numbed too much for hopes or fears;
Look right, look left, I dwell alone;
A lift mine eyes, but dimmed with grief
No everlasting hills I see;
My life is like the falling leaf;
O Jesus, quicken me.

To you, my true, my sweet--
Your love once kept me safe
In the misery I keep.

Your touch, like fireflies,
On a warm Winter's night,
Now hangs in the hollows
Of the dreams I hold inside.

The sun may beam and glow
Day by Day
But without you by my side,
I only see the looming clouds;
Gray. Gray. Gray.

I can still remember the way my name rolls off your lips like a sweet songbird in the morning.
I can still hear the way you call for me across the house, repeating, just once.
I can still feel the cool cool breeze that engulfed your bedroom, while we slept close, but apart.
I can remember leaving, in a rush, as to not miss my plans I made, without you.
.
.
.
I can't remember your smell, on all the clothes I used to have, and on my body after we made love all day.
I can't remember what you last said to me as I left down the empty, shaded stairwell.
I can't remember the last kiss we shared--it wasn't special, but it was the last.
I can't remember when I lost you, both seeing the same world, apart.

If I could, I would probably try to forget anyway.