salt rose, topaz, archery, carnations,
the birth of fire. You are none of these.
You are the holy secret darkness, that space
between shadow and soul. There, where love is.

You are the flower that only blooms
within; hidden, but made of light.
A tactile fragrance, an enhancement
deep within the earth, my body.

How or when or where is not
what it’s about, this love; it is direct,
no pride, no problems, and no otherwise.

No me nor you. Your hand’s touch
is my hand; when your eyes close
I sleep.

 

  Pablo Neruda, Sonnet 17: No te amo como si fueras rosa de sal