Damnit, Pablo, Stop Writing And Take Out The Trash For Once
"Before I loved you, Love, nothing was my own;
I wavered through the streets, among objects:
nothing mattered or had a name:
the world was made of air, which waited."
"[...]But Love, this love has not ended:
just as it never had a birth, it has
no death: it is like a long river,
only changing lands, and changing lips."
There are some words on some blog somewhere about something, I can't say i've noticed. Here are some poems by Pablo Neruda. Excuse me, I misspoke; here are what are possibly the best love poems I have ever read, one after the other, lightly touching like butterfly wings with the electric shock of a toaster thrown into cold water.
I wavered through the streets, among objects:
nothing mattered or had a name:
the world was made of air, which waited."
"[...]But Love, this love has not ended:
just as it never had a birth, it has
no death: it is like a long river,
only changing lands, and changing lips."
There are some words on some blog somewhere about something, I can't say i've noticed. Here are some poems by Pablo Neruda. Excuse me, I misspoke; here are what are possibly the best love poems I have ever read, one after the other, lightly touching like butterfly wings with the electric shock of a toaster thrown into cold water.