Looking back at some of my older work, I found a piece that was written by someone else, hidden away amongst my shit. I kept it a secret, I hid it from from my partner because it was a poem I felt deeply about, but it was meant for another, my muse. I do not know who originally wrote it, but I would like to share it.

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 shut as I fall asleep.