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 with 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.
– Pablo Neruda