Wednesday, May 4, 2011 | 1:50 AM | 0 comments

I love you not only for what you are, but for what I am when I am with you.
I love you not only for what you have made of yourself, but for what
you are making of me.
I love you for the part of me that you bring out.

Sometimes at night
When I look up to the sky
I start to think of you
And then ask myself why
Why do I love you?
I think and smile
Because I know the list could run on for miles

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.

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