Today on your tumblr account you posted the following poem from Neruda:
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 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 fragrance,
risen darkly 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 and I fall asleep.
When I saw it there, I just shook my head.
There is no way you could know this poem has long been my secret prayer to you, voiced across the years and the universe. There is no way that you these stanzas are stitched on my heart and etched into my bone, always, always next to your name.
Well, at least there is no earthly way that you could know of these things. But perhaps your soul knows.