For AC

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.