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Cross Boundry Sep 2020
"I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul."

you are my dark thing.
that beautiful, painful secret i keep from the world.

can i be your dark thing?
no one ever has to see,
i just need you to love me as certain dark things are to be loved.

let's be dark things together.
creatures, monsters in secret.
between the chaos and the light.
gracias, pablo neruda
xvii sonnet - pablo neruda
MAARIA Sep 2020
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.
daniela Oct 2017
“pero no amo tus pies
sino porque anduvieron
sobre la tierra y sobre
el viento yo sobre el agua,
hasta que me encontraron”
-- pablo neruda, your feet

baby, you have the most perfect body i have ever seen.
and when i say that you always roll your eyes at me,
embarrassed. and i get it,
women are only taught to feel beautiful in certain ways,
in ways to that fit women like you and me badly,
like hand-me-downs or things shrunken in the laundry.

the world does not teach us how to think
of ourselves as anything other than commodities,
things to be bought and eaten alive.
i spent so long reading stories riddled with
mocha, butterscotch, toffee, cinnamon, olives
that sometimes i look at myself in the mirror like i am something
to devoured and spit back out.

but, baby, i love you even when you don’t feel right in your skin,
like i know the way i don’t feel at home in my own.
and i love the way your heart keeps time to mine,
erratic and anxious,
and the way your eyelashes like to tangle in the corner of your eyes.
and i love those hands, ****, i love those hands
and the covinhas, the craters, the dimples in your cheeks.
i love you down your molecules.

see, i had a friend once tell me that she believed in reincarnation
simply because this universe isn’t as infinite as it seems
and eventually we’re bound to run out of matter
and the universe will be forced to start recycling --
a conservation of souls.
and i don’t know if i believe that, but if it’s true i have this feeling
that in the very beginning, we were two atoms
tangled up in each other, holding on too tightly to ever really let go
and ever since i just keep finding my way back to you.
and that’s *******, probably, i’m not a scientist,
but if you hate yourself right now, it’s okay.
i think we all do sometimes.
i still love every inch of you, even the centimeters
that don’t get that much attention
like the soft spot under your ear or the backs your knees  
and a body is just a body,
just remember that all we are is molecules, follicles,
and every fews weeks we’re brand new again,
we’ve got new skin and maybe it won’t fit right this time either
but, ****, i love the wrinkles and the scars and the words emblazoned
on the fragile skin stretched over your ribcage
and you can’t see it,
but there’s something misshapen etched in ink
with a stick’n’poke there, too.
i can only find it when i’m looking.
i run my hand down your side
feeling all the echoes of other people on your skin.
i worry that my hands are much louder than i want them to be.
i worry someday your feet your carry you somewhere far, far away from me
and i’ll be left memorizing nothing
but the shape of you.
i read a pablo neruda poem today and cried and then i wrote this
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.
It will always be you JB
gone \’gôn also ‘gan\

adjective
no longer existing: no longer at a place; departed or lost.

When asked about my favorite memory, I can recall nothing. All that comes into mind is a blur of what has once been, of what things were, right before everything ceased to exist. I remember the shadow of your smile, the echo of your voice, and the silhouette of your embrace. It was the simplest of things, and also the insignificant ones at that, that seems to be tattooed on my mind. Nothing can quite compare to the feel of your lips pressed against mine, to the touch of your hands igniting my body. When it comes to you, all else fades into the background: my fears of commitment, of being not enough.

However, none of it matters now, anyway. Not when all is lost; not when everything is all a little too late. So if one would ask why I do not consider these fragments of memories as my favorite, the answer is quite simple. A favorite memory should be something that could bring you rapture in reminiscing. How could nostalgias centered with you become my favorite if all they do is haunt me of a love lost and another round of “what could have been”?
Once in every dream my brain could come up with, amidst the constant troubling of my nightmares to sleep, I get visions of us holding hand in hand with everyone right there to see. I dream of you singing me to sleep, enveloping me in your warmth all through the night. But this wistful thinking burns all hopes like how a piece of the sun could burn like a coin in my hand. No more, darling, we could not go back to the way it was, no more.

Like a missing piece in a puzzle, I know it is more than a mystery, an enigma, why I vanished suddenly. Are you even still waiting for me? Are you still there pining for my return? If yes, then good for me that I have someone like you. If no, then just know that I completely understand. But whatever the answer may be, I know you deserve an answer. The lies I reasoned with for leaving are not entirely tell-tales. But I did lie, by omission, of denying you the truth of why I wanted out.

As I write this letter to you, I want you to think of me with the sun’s rays illuminating my dark locks. Envision me in a meadow by the hill, with the sun setting behind my back, the pen in my hand with you as the subject of my afternoon daydream. But in this reverie, I do not think of how it feels to be loved by you again neither how it soothes my insides to hear your voice once more. Instead, in this contemplation, I gather all the courage to make myself vulnerable to someone, to entrust a portion of my soul to the hands of another.

I remember how you once asked me, “Will you stay with me no matter what?” You took my lack of answer as an affirmation and kissed me on the forehead instead as we looked at the stars lighting up the night sky. There was a lot of everything that I would have wanted to say but nothing came out of my mouth through every attempt. I wanted to tell you that I could not, that no matter how much I would have wanted that to happen, it would be more than unfair to you if I stayed. No, if you stayed with me.

Do you remember how I told you how my grandfather switched up names of his own daughters? Do you remember the story of how my aunt mistook her past lover to be her husband? You see, love, a year or two from now, I might become them. I have been diagnosed with a terminal memory loss, the Alzheimer’s disease as they would call it, and only time then could dictate the deadline of every single memory I have.

Leaving, as they say, was always a coward’s way out. But is not it dauntless how I braved living without my lifeline, living my life without you? I did not mean to be selfish, dear, but cannot you see how I am being selfless in letting you go? To set you free of me is to protect you from anymore hurt that this condition of mine would bring you. The knowledge of me leaving you for an unknown reason is a more tolerable pain than the reality of me forgetting you in the long run.

“Where were you then?” I was at the far distance looking at you exist without me in the picture. “Who else was there?” No one but your silhouette haunting me every minute. “Saying what?” That it was a mistake to abandon you.

Mourn no more for our lost love, dear. Mourn no more for the longing of what we once had and the regrets of what we could have had. As my every memory of you slowly wanes, always remember how hard I held on to them, the hardest that my brain could ever allow. Sometimes it is bliss to pretend that memory loss happens since the brain gives way for the heart to store the collection of moments we have, that my mind flushes you out to store you inside the core of my body.
But most of all, darling, the pain of leaving is endurable than the unbearable pain of seeing you suffer all because of me, than the inevitable pain of taking one glimpse on the masked agony on your face every single time I would ask “Who are you?” It would hurt to look at your beautiful face with me unable to know even just your name. You see, love, to be gone from your life is far more tolerable than to exist day by day with you in my life slowly vanishing into dust. Always, for always it would only be you. Even after all of my memories plummet into the hollow chasm and they are all gone, gone, just gone.


(k.p.)
Disclaimer: This literary work in prose written in a first-person point of view is penned as a reply to Pablo Neruda’s poem entitled Clenched Soul.
Cat Fiske May 2015
Poetry by Pablo Neruda is something I was just forced to read,
for english class,
and maybe I could enjoy his poem,
called Poetry,
if the soul less bodies around,
could mindlessly stop! saying;
"this is pointless,"
"his poem is about poetry because of the title,"
"his poem has no meaning,"
and If I could focus,
I would of known the meaning,
or at least found meaning in it,
besides the one my stupid classmates found,
"just another ****** forced assignment"
"we will never get the meaning of"
but I know the meaning of his poem now,
"It was about the struggle to write,
and understand poetry to start with,"
and in a room full of people,
who don't get poetry,
maybe they could of gotten something from this lesson,
but, "we will never get the meaning of a forced assignment,"
I just want to learn in school, unlike others, LOOK I LEARNED *** I LIKED THE TOPIC
Jey Nov 2014
Tonight I can write the thoughts I have for you.
So that someday when you read this, you'll think of me too.

I will write until the last moment.
For you have given me a life that is treasuring to spent.

You made me feel like I was in heaven.
You now have me seeking for a safe haven.

I hate the way you treated me.
I hate exactly what you did to me.

When you laughed at what I asked.
When you weren't there when I passed.

Tonight I can write the most bitter of them all.
For this will be the mark that for you, I hardly fall.

I will write for I can still recall the memories.
The memories we had full of joy and bliss.

Those moments where you are still with me.
That moment where in your side is the safe place to be.

I will write for I had been hurt with the things you've said.
Those thoughts of you made my heart break 'til it bled.

Tonight I can write for I can't get over you.
Because it would be the hardest thing I cannot do.
r Aug 2014
A book,
just pages
on leaves, whitened-
river washed,
dried then wettened again;
tears of words
torn from a heart-
his then mine, and mine again.

A book
of poems, written verse,
la poema-
the saddest lines of all,
but not all, no,
not all; not always.

Pages of Odes;
oh, the odes
to fruit,
to wine
and song
of the sea and mermaids;
the pages sing his songs.

A book
of heights
and stone,
he took us there-
a shovel in the sand;
of monuments
and ships
of drunken men and love
once loved,
and loved again.

Words
on silken thighs,
*******
and a red dress-
on a dark night
the stars and moon did shine.

A garden-
he planted a *****
into our hearts;
his dog,
it died
simply
loved too much-
Ai.

A book,
just a book
of pages,
of poems
by my bed-
dog-eared,
much read and loved;
his words ending
the saddest lines of all.

r ~ 8/15/14
\¥/\
|    Neruda
/ \

— The End —