I do not love you as if you were the sire, topaz or arrows of carnations that procreate fire.
I love you as certain dark things are loved in secret between the body and the soul.
I love you like the plant that doesn't flower but hides in shadows of the leaves as cover
Your love that dwells darkly intimately in me as torment, as strong fragrances you spread in every moment.
I love you without knowing how or when or from where. I love you without intricacies and pride in which no you, nor I am aware.
So close my hand on your chest as it seems a part of you.
Where do you go to? Why do you go to?
What are your colours? What are your moods?
To take a look at you I turn, to know you I burn.
With an anxious heart, a restless mind
I love you for your flaws underneath and how imperfectly perfect they are for me, in you, it binds.