You are more than a masterpiece.

I drank a bottle of blissful yellow paint
Lured myself with the calmness of blue
Drowned myself into a pool of thick red blood

And I found myself, staring at your eyes
Because, love, I realized, it is where my palette lies.

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.

They say that the magnificence of the planets, the stars and the galaxies
cannot be seen by the naked eye.
But when my eyes met yours, your hands touched mine -
my sight, my senses, were amplified
like the floating Hubble in space -
I begged to differ.

It's all in you,
the galaxies, millions even billions of them, are in no comparison
with you.

My sanity,
I doubt.