Gnawing at me.

This want of you.

Pablo Neruda's Sonnet XVII

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.

Test mike, 123

Your hand in mine.
Your cold white hand.
Those slender fingers,

frightened,

lonely

Those fingers
Made promises of not letting go

Those fingers
Capable of lies

Promises.
Broken.
There's no me anywhere under your sun.

I'm just an umbrella you use on rainy days.

Should I have thrown away my heart
And not let you hold on to me

I should

Should I have make use of my head
And not let you have all of me

I should

Should I have employ self interest and walk away
And be happy

I should.

But then again,
Do I have to say this?

We are different after all.

So even if I want to, I can't.