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.

Those who Dance to the Music are
considered Insane by those who cannot Hear it.

But are we not all insane?
Are we not part of the same life of sound, music and death?
Are we not all behind the same wall?

We're all insane. It's just that not everyone knows it.
Which is why they're staring at me because I'm humming.

I'm sure everyone knows they're insane but refuse to admit it.
So they stare and judge.

Probably.
Of course, we're absolutely mental.
We're mad.
All the best people are.
But the really insane ones are those who think they're normal.

Yet they send us to mental institutions.

Because they honestly don't realize . . . we all have monsters.
We stopped running from the ones under our beds, when we realized
they were inside of us.
We're all monsters.
No avoiding it.

I love you inevitably.
Just as sure as the sun rises in the east.
I love you unfailingly.
And without a doubt.
Because there is no other way to love you.
In all your flaws,
I find utter perfection.
That they make you more of a man.
More than anyone else.
Your insecurities. And depressions.
All of them I desire.
Not for myself. But for you.
For I know that without your anxieties,
And curses of hate,
And thoughts of dreadful nights,
That scream into the void and oblivion,
I would not have loved you
Just as I do now.
I love you with all intentions
Of keeping you for myself.
Who,
in his sane mind,
would want to let go?
In all your pain,
Mistrust and paper cuts,
These that make you who you are

I love you.

And that is all.