One day I will find you and you will have this written on a crumpled but carefully folded piece of paper that will be in your back pocket. And when we greet each other your hand will reach for the paper and, as carefully and gently as it was folded, you will unfold it and recite the following:
Love Sonnet XVII
by Pablo Neruda
I don't love you as if you were the salt-rose, topaz
or arrow of carnations that propagate fire:
I love you as certain dark things are loved,
secretly, between the shadow and the soul.
I love you as the plant that doesn't bloom and carries
hidden within itself the light of those flowers,
and thanks to your love, darkly in my body
lives the dense fragrance that rises from the earth.
I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where,
I love you simply, without problems or pride:
I love you in this way because I don't know any other way of loving
but this, in which there is no I or you,
so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand,
so intimate that when I fall asleep it is your eyes that close.
If this were the only thing you could say and give to me, then I would be happy. We could depart with love, still in love. I would live loving you secretly - in the space between two thoughts, heartbeats and words.
103 Time and Age