Neruda was right.
There are two types of love.
One in which you love like certain dark things are to be loved. To see the other as the plant that doesn't bloom but carries within itself the light of those flowers.
One in which you love like certain simple integral things are to be loved. The other, the evening breeze which doesn't hide anything but plays on your hair all that it is.
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
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